


second chances

by Ruriska



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Badass Jesse McCree, Character Death, M/M, Old McCree/Young Hanzo, Slow Burn, There will be sex, Time Travel, Violence, i want to get there too i promise, just not for a while
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2018-12-08 00:13:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11634891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriska/pseuds/Ruriska
Summary: When Hanzo and Genji die on the battlefield, McCree is sent back in time to fix the past. A story of war, love and redemption.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends!
> 
> Okay, look, I know I've got other things I should be writing but _this_ \- this is an idea that sprung up into my mind fully formed and had to be written. I had no choice. This is a new multi-chapter mchanzo with some slow-burn romance, some action and a lot of complications. I really hope you'll enjoy it! This is just the short prologue to begin with. I'll release chapter one within a few days and then hopefully manage a weekly time schedule (*everyone laughs*).
> 
> Also endless love and thanks to papa-abel who is holding my hand through this one and giving the encouragement that will keep me on track! Go check out his art on tumblr!

Looking back, McCree would think of this moment as the most pivotal in his life; greater even than the day he had stared down the barrel of a shotgun and let his revolver fall from his fingers to land in the red dirt of New Mexico. 

He could still see every detail in his mind many years later; the flames of battle dancing, the omnic glowing ominously, colours deepening from orange to dark red as the explosion progressed. There on the ground before it was the hunched form of Hanzo, his hair loose, inky black. McCree can recall seeing the ribbon fluttering away, his eye caught by the bright yellow only minutes earlier but what could have been a lifetime ago.

The jarring realisation that nearby was Genji’s arm and over there his body, broken in Hanzo’s lap. Not dead yet. McCree will always remember the way Genji found the strength to lift his remaining arm, to push weakly at his brother’s shoulder, trying to get him to leave him now before it was too late. But it was too late. It would always be too late, no matter how many times McCree remembered. There was no changing that, just as there was no changing how Overwatch and Blackwatch had torn each other apart. Not here anyway.

“McCree, retreat! You can’t help them!” Mercy was in his ear, her voice strong but desperate, vocalizing the thought that had already solidified in his mind. He was already backpedaling away from the impending destruction, not quite turning to run yet, his gaze still locked, pinpoint focus on those two figures. His friend and his ally, alive but already dead. 

He couldn’t say he liked Hanzo. He certainly admired him. The man was stubborn and fierce, extremely talented and terrifying in battle but he was also cruel and withdrawn. There was the ever-present axe of guilt hanging over his head. Rightfully so considering his actions; a brother near destroyed, turned into a weapon. 

Now that axe was swinging down, taking its due. 

McCree could see it in the slumped set of his shoulders and the way he took the hand that was making that weak attempt to move him, wrapped his fingers around it instead. He never saw Hanzo’s face but he could imagine what was there. Resignation. Perhaps even relief.

There the recall became hazy and the sounds crashed back in. Someone screaming, gunfire, the almighty roar behind him as he finally turned and ran. His hat still on his head by some gift of God. As if the Almighty whatever hadn’t bothered to save actual lives but by hell or high water that hat was going to remain where it was. 

The omnic exploded.

Heat smashed into his back and hurled him forward, then a blessed hand was there, catching him and dragging him behind cover. McCree looked up at the glimmering, straining shield, the cracks rapidly appearing on the surface as Reinhardt yelled his defiance and fought to hold firm. It shattered anyway and they tumbled away like leaves, hitting the ground hard, dull patches of pain that would become livid bruises.

McCree scrambled to his knees, ears ringing, trying to catalogue the damage but finding himself too numb to do a proper job. For all he knew he’d lost his other arm too. Angela nearby, dazed and barely upright but their shared wide-eyed look spoke volumes, ‘I never should have come back’. He should have stayed in that bar, never answered that damn recall. Overwatch had never done anyone any real good. Especially not those who fought for her.

It took him too long to realise the roaring hadn’t stop, that it wasn’t just an echo in his mind but a sound that was rapidly transforming into a high-pitched screaming. Green and blue forms writhed in the crater the explosion had created and McCree stared at them, slack-jawed, stunned into inaction for the first time in his life. Rippling, thrashing beasts with wild eyes. _Dragons._

They seemed to feel his regard and he felt their hungry gaze right into into the pit of his belly.

They came at him too rapidly to react. He only had half a second to think ‘what a way to go’ before they slammed into him, filled him to the brim with pain that wasn’t his but their own and then it was his and they were sharing it, sharing everything, memories unfolding like flipping through the pages of a book. He couldn’t remember any of them afterwards, just the impression they left; the sheer agony and love and hatred. 

A howling desperate plea.

Guttural words that he understood instinctively. 

_Go back._

_Fix this._

Then there was nothing.


	2. now arriving at...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is first proper chapter! Quite a bit meatier than the prologue, so I guess now you'll know for sure if you wanna stick around or not. 
> 
> Enjoy!

McCree woke to unfamiliar voices and his survival instincts immediately kicked in - using an offshoot of the very useful skill of playing possum to stay alive - keeping his breathing even and slow and his body still until he worked out where he was and what was going on. The language wasn’t English and it took him a moment to recognize it as Japanese, even longer for his rudimentary understanding to start translating words.

There was at least four of them, all men; their tone suggesting anger tempered by confusion. They seemed to be discussing how he’d gotten there and McCree’s first thought was to wonder exactly where ‘there’ was. He wasn’t on a battlefield anymore, though he should have been judging by the telltale aches that were now beginning make themselves known, hungrily spreading bright patches pain. A hospital would have made sense but this clearly wasn’t one and there was no cool, familiar hand or tutting voice telling him rest.

There was a distinct heavy pounding his head, worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced, and he’d had some doozies. McCree suspected that as soon as he did open his eyes and tried to rise, the results wouldn’t be good. There wouldn’t be any fighting his way out of this one which only left his fabled good ol’ fashioned charm and he was pretty sure he was fresh out of that as well. 

He rolled his thoughts back, catching at the tail-end of his memories and following the trail.

The battle. The explosion.

The last thing he could recall was the dragons, everywhere, every inch of him filled up, the fleeting images that skirted the edge of his mind, their words like a brand. He was fairly sure being hit by a bus would be less traumatic. Actually, he _had_ been hit by a bus during an unfortunate mission in Russia. Gabriel hadn’t let him live it down for an entire year. That had definitely been preferable to having his mind assaulted by shrieking dragons. His mind still felt tattered by the experience, his thoughts stumbling and trying to make sense of who and what and where.

“ _Just kill him_.”

The words were followed by the familiar sound of someone removing the safety on their gun, which meant it was time to look alive before he wasn’t anymore and that was enough to clear his mind enough to react. There would be time for introspection when he wasn’t about to get a bullet through the brain. 

McCree shifted and groaned, moved just enough to crack an eye open and look hazily up at the four men. There was a brief silence as they all realized he was awake and then a torrent of rapid Japanese McCree never had a hope of understanding. One of the men still had his gun out and aimed at Jesse’s head. McCree lifted a hand, the simple movement sending pain like pins all the way down his arm, and held his palm out in the universal symbol of ‘please don’t fucking shoot me’.

“Woah, woah, woah,” his voice croaked painfully, stars exploded behind his eyes. “Hang on there, uh... fuck.”

More Japanese but this time something stuck out to him in the rapid angry sentence. _Master Shimada_. He swallowed hard. That was... impossible. His eyes darted quickly, up and around. The four men in suits, tattooed, the tatami mats, the scroll of a dragon staring down at him. 

“Shimada,” he tried and four sets of eyes turned to him. “Genji. Uh,” what was the fucking word, tomo-something... tomo... dachi! “ _Friend_. Right, Shimada and I are buddies. _Friend_.” He shifted onto his elbow as he spoke and the gun that had been lowering snapped right back into place. McCree lifted his hand a little higher in surrender.

They spoke slower this time, enough for McCree to piece together they weren’t surprised Genji would have dragged some dirty American into their dojo. The gun was lowered and McCree slumped in relief. Though now that his situation was marginally better everything else was starting to overwhelm him; the pain was creeping up like a black cloud alongside the slow and terrifying realisation that somehow he was in a place he couldn’t possibly be.

He was too old for this.

McCree wasn't expecting the boot to the back of the head but he was surprisingly grateful for unconsciousness. 

\---

Jesse McCree was welcomed back to the waking world by a slap to the face. The first intelligible word out of his mouth, after some grunting and generally unpleasant sounds, was, ‘fuck!’. Everything still ached. His mouth was painfully dry, his tongue catching on the roof of his mouth. McCree grunted again and moved his hand to his face, rubbed at his cheeks. 

“You are awake now,” perfect accented English, an amused tone, a voice somehow familiar but not quite right. 

He opened his eyes properly and was certain, just for that split second, that he was dead. Sorry partner, turns out you didn’t survive that explosion and this is just a very real and painful hell. Because Genji was staring back at him. Not his friend Genji; not the angry man he’d known during Blackwatch, nor the calmer and accepting cyborg he had become. This was all flesh, smiling with bright eyes and perfect teeth. Terrifyingly pretty, his hair styled and _green_. McCree had seen pictures of this young man but everyone had known there was no going back to that. That person had been dead a long time.

Yet here he was. 

With Jesse’s hat in his hands, which he transferred to his head when he saw McCree looking, making sure to tip it at a jaunty angle.

McCree rubbed at his eyes and then looked back at him but the scene didn’t change. Genji was still there. Not only was he not currently ashes on the earth with his brother but somehow returned from the grave as what McCree presumed was a twenty-something year old. 

Echoes.

_Go back_.

_Fix this_. 

Fuck.

“What year is it?” He croaked. 

Genji arched an eyebrow. “Are you on drugs?” He asked but answered McCree immediately anyway, “2066.” 

McCree closed his eyes away from Genji’s curious stare and did some mental calculations. The dragons had timed it right. 2066 was the year Genji had been brought in by Overwatch, half of his body missing and Angela’s focus exclusively on keeping him alive. It had been touch and go. Hanzo Shimada’s attempt to kill his own brother had temporarily shelved Blackwatch’s mission to destroy the clan. Eventually it had been Genji himself that had done the bulk of the dirty work. 

2066 also meant that a young _Jesse McCree_ was currently a Blackwatch agent which begged the question: if McCree was back in time, did his younger self still exist? How was this even possible? Had he simply disappeared off the battlefield? Were the others still alive? Angela, Reinhardt? It wouldn’t take much for them to be overwhelmed after being so close to that blast. 

He had to shove that thought aside, buried it before guilt and worry gnawed too deep into his bones. 

The dragons had sent him back; that much was obvious. They wanted him to fix what had happened but they’d gone far beyond the battle that had killed the brothers. It didn't take a genius to work out what they wanted. If he stopped Genji from ever becoming a cyborg, how would that affect the future? Was that even how it worked? What else could he fix? Who else could he save? And then, a darker bitter little thought: should he even bother trying?

A throat being cleared pulled him back to the moment.

“You told the guards you are my friend,” Genji purred. “But I do not know you. _Do you speak Japanese_?”

“ _Not much_ ,” McCree replied. “Could you spare me some water? I’m parched.”

Genji looked amused by the request but stood from his crouch beside McCree’s futon, chin lifted and eyelids lowered as if to say ‘look at how I deign to serve you’. McCree followed his progress towards what he presumed was the bathroom and then looked around the room. It was sparse and tidy, clearly a spare bedroom and not Genji’s own. 

McCree’s armour, weapons and most of his clothes had been removed and were nowhere to be seen. He doubted they were anywhere close. He’d been left only in his undershirt and boxers but he doubted either of those had saved him from prying eyes; which meant he was almost 100% sure Genji had seen that stupid heart tattoo on his hip. 

He couldn’t help but feel vulnerable. That chilling realisation that he was powerless for the first time in a very long time was worse than the bruises that covered his body. It made him want to snarl like a caged dog, hackles raised, ready to bite his captor but he wasn’t like that anymore; and it only took some calming breaths to remember that even like this, he wasn’t entirely powerless. 

His fingers itched to find his gun but there would be time for that later.

Adapt and survive.

That had always been his motto.

It would be the same here.

Genji returned with a glass of water, settled himself cross-legged back beside McCree and watched as the older man gulped the liquid down. Apparently fascinated by the simple act, elbow on his knee and chin resting on his hand.

“You are American? A cowboy?” Genji laughed as McCree was wiping stray water droplets from his beard with the back of his hand. “I like your hat. I am keeping it.”

“No, you ain’t.” McCree told him without any fire but he sure as hell wasn’t giving up a hat that had survived explosions, dragons and time travel. It was clearly blessed. “It’ll mess up your hair too much. I’ve lived with permanent hat hair all my life and you don’t want none of that, trust me sweetheart.”

Genji pouted but he seemed pleased. “Maybe I will let them kill you then,” he threatened in a tone that was clearly teasing.

“You would’a done that already if you’d wanted. Doubt you’ll do it now over a hat.” McCree stared regrettably at his empty glass but didn’t ask for more, just put it aside for the moment, groaning as he rolled onto his side to do so. 

“How did you get in the dojo?” Genji asked him and this time his voice held more intent, lowered with importance. 

“Time travel,” McCree grunted, closing his eyes.

“Be serious!”

McCree gave a tired chuckle.

“Do not laugh at me!” Genji huffed, poking McCree in the shoulder. “What is your name?”

“Call me Jesse.” His eyes felt sealed closed, as if his body wanted to pull him back into sleep.

“Jesse. You should thank me. I saved your life.” 

“Thanks, buddy.”

There was a short silence following the insincere gratitude. McCree used it to try figure out his next course of action. If Genji was here, the young Hanzo would be nearby. He didn’t know exactly where in the year they were yet which meant the fated fight could be months, weeks or days away. Heck, it could happen tonight and he’d have no way of knowing. He couldn’t even remember the exact date they’d brought Genji in as a near corpse. Each way he looked at it this was a goddamn mess.

“You are very hairy,” Genji broke the silence. His fingers carded through McCree’s facial hair; the initial touch nearly making him flinch back. McCree forced his eyes open, mouth curling down. “All over.” The younger man grinned. “I checked.”

Jesse was gentle as he pushed the questing hand away from his face.

Genji let his hand be guided away, dropped it onto McCree’s chest where it sat heavily. His eyes were narrowed, sly. “How did you lose your arm?”

“Long story.”

“How did you get in the dojo?” The repeated question, designed to try trip him up, amatuer. 

McCree wasn’t fooled for a second. He rolled onto his back, lazy and indolent, and answered, “time travel.” Of course the answer was correct but Genji didn’t think so and he frowned again. 

Watching Genji pout cutely was one of the oddest experiences of McCree’s life to date and he’d just travelled through time into the past. The expression just seemed so out of place, so jarring. Those soft pink lips pursed, eyelids lowered, the sulty side-eye. “You should be more grateful. If you tell me the truth, I can be very nice to you.”

Both of them knew exactly what was being put on offer and McCree was instantly shocked back to conversations with an older scarred Genji. It had taken a long time for the other man to confide in him. They’d taken Genji apart over and over again and his anger had burned white hot and terrifying until Genji had simply grown weary of the rage. It was only then that they’d been able to converse properly.

During one of their later conversations, before both of them had gone their separate ways and Overwatch had fallen apart, Genji had told McCree a little of his past; about how he missed the pleasures the body could offer and that he didn’t regret the time he had spent in his youth enjoying them. There was a lot he did regret but that particular vice was not one of them.

McCree could see that now; was acutely, uncomfortably aware as Genji straddled his hips. But it wasn’t just his beauty that he honed in on, it was the sheer strength he could see in him, the muscles of his arms, the powerful chest behind the simple orange shirt. This was far removed from the sleek and shiny creature Genji had become. 

McCree had the weight advantage. He also wanted to say skill but he wasn’t so sure. Not when he was still reeling from dragon teleportation and a boot to the head. Genji wasn't offering a threat yet but it wasn’t off the table, it was _never_ off the table, and McCree would have to be damn quick and real dirty if he was going to grab the upper hand before he took a karate chop to the throat. 

“What do you say, cow-boy?”

“Easy there,” McCree crooned, hand up, flat against Genji’s chest as the other man leaned forward. It stopped his progress and left Genji at an awkward diagonal angle.The muscles beneath Jesse’s hand felt well-defined where they flexed, playfully testing his strength. “I ain’t interested in going for a ride tonight.”

Genji was clearly not someone used to being denied and the spark in his eyes declared that he was more than ready for a challenge. His hand slid along McCree’s chest, rucked the shirt up.

“I am sure I can change your mind.”

He never got the chance to try. 

The tatami door slid violently open, interrupting the exchange; and for that McCree was forever grateful. 

“Enough!” A commanding voice snapped, a new figure stepping into the room. 

Genji’s reaction was instantaneous. He sat back and rolled his eyes beneath the expressive arch of his eyebrows. All pretence of intimacy was expelled in seconds and without it he was just a vaguely discomforting weight on Jesse’s waist. “What is the problem?”

McCree studied the new arrival; dragged his gaze upwards, past the toe-socks and the black hakama and continued on past the blue kimono top with flowing sleeves to that proud handsome face. Hanzo didn’t bother to look back at him. He was glowering at Genji. The features were slightly softer but it was the same man, the same mean stare. 

Hanzo Shimada in the flesh.

There was a quick exchange of Japanese and Genji rolled his eyes again. He rose in one fluid motion, feet planted either side of McCree’s hips. He stared down, the cowboy hat making him look even younger than what he was. “Why would my brother give me a task if he does not trust me to complete it?” He asked McCree, though his words were clearly meant for Hanzo. He completed the question with a dramatic shrug of his own shoulders. 

Hanzo hissed a reply.

And McCree, being himself, interjected before his mind had taken due consideration. 

“Don’t call your brother a slut, Hanzo, it ain’t nice,” he admonished lightly.

Genji gave a delighted 'ha!'. 

Hanzo stared at him as if instead of light admonishment, McCree had just slapped him across the face. Then his expression shifted, the cold calculation an echo of what Hanzo could become. “I see,” he said. When he looked back at his brother, there wasn’t a hint of emotion within his dark eyes as he ordered, “kill him.”

McCree’s gaze jerked straight back to Genji, caught the uncertain flicker of his eyes that said ‘are you sure?’ and the tightness in his jaw before there was a knife in his hand, wicked keen edge catching the light. McCree looked past it, doing his best to look bored and unconcerned. 

“He is too old for me to fuck anyway,” Genji laughed, squatting, muscles tensed. The knife was in a deceptively loose grip. “Last chance, cowboy- _san_.”

With a slow stretch, he hooked his arms behind the back of his head and called their bluff.

“Jesse,” the cowboy corrected in a lazy drawl. “Jesse McCree and you’d better put that there toothpick away before you hurt yourself, kid.”

There was a heavy silence.

Genji watched him, head quirked slightly like a curious bird. His index finger ‘tap tap tap’d’ on the hilt of the knife.

He didn’t attack.

“He knows,” Hanzo eventually sighed. “Get off him.”

The knife disappeared back where it had come from as Genji stood and retreated, already looking bored. He leaned himself against the side of the door next to Hanzo and crossed his arms. With one hand he gestured towards McCree on the floor, as if to say, ‘all yours’. 

McCree sat up, shoulders slightly slumped and arms loose in his lap. “Gotta tell ya, thought the Shimada Clan interrogation tactics would be a little more advanced than this.” He reached up, idly scratched his fingers through his beard. “Gonna have to work harder if you’re gonna fill old pa’s footsteps.” Sojiro should be at least a year dead by now.

It was a low blow but it hit well enough.

Hanzo swallowed hard and Genji made an ‘O’ with his mouth. 

The first order of business was to work out where they all stood. He’d keep some cards close to his chest but he wasn’t going to be any way useful without declaring at the get go that the dragons were responsible for his being here and they’d be mighty upset if anybody fucked him over. 

“Right then, looks like it’s time we have a proper chat ‘bout what’s happenin’ here,” McCree began but his words petered out, dying away as he watched Hanzo loosen his top and push it off his shoulder. It wasn’t as if McCree hadn’t seen the infamous tattoo and chest before but he hadn’t been expecting it to be pulled out now, nor was he expecting Hanzo to approach him. He crossed the room in deliberate steps and made McCree wish he’d bothered to stand up.

As it was he was left craning his head up to meet that intense glower. 

“Take your shirt off,” Hanzo demanded.

“Pardon?”

“Now.”

McCree hesitated only for a moment, pulling his shirt up and over his head. He sat half-naked, broad shaggy chest littered with old scars, and looked up at Hanzo. The other man didn’t meet his gaze, he was staring at McCree’s upper right arm, at what had been revealed. McCree angled his arm up and turned his head to get a curious glance in. The twin dragon marking was burned into his arm, pale against his darker skin.

“Tarnation?” He murmured and then Hanzo was kneeling with a swish of fabric.

The sudden electric blue glow was horrifyingly familiar.

“Hang on now,” McCree protested but Hanzo was too quick, lashing out like a snake, wrapping a hand around McCree’s arm, covering the brand with his fingers. The dragon tattoo seemed to leap off the skin, undulating, roaring, screaming, fucking hell not this again. McCree’s breath rushed out of his lungs and scaled coils wrapped around his mind, twisted and tested. Gleaming eyes, jagged teeth, a snout with nostrils flared.

_We know you._

Then they were gone and without a word, pale as a sheet, Hanzo rose and marched from the room.

McCree recovered his senses slowly, headache newly restored. 

Genji was still there, watching him, smiling broadly. “You are marked by the dragons. We can not kill you,” he sounded delighted. “I look forward to have you around, Jesse-san.”

The pain crashed in, the phantom touch of dragons in his mind. “Just give me my goddamn hat back,” McCree snarled.


	3. truth and lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look and me go posting right on time! hope you all enjoy the chapter! i'll see you next week! :)

They returned his clothes but kept the armour and weapons. McCree inquired politely about his gun and was informed that it was being kept ‘safe’. It was unsurprising and he’d had little hope of getting it back this early but he always felt slightly uneasy without the familiar weight of Peacekeeper at his hip. He hadn’t been parted from that gun in over a decade and his hand kept brushing at his hip, expecting it to be there. He was by no means powerless without it but shooting was his main gig.

Genji took off after handing over the hat and McCree was left with a single guard who refused to say a word and a young maid that fetched him painkillers when asked but otherwise didn’t react to any of his questions.

He washed the painkillers down with water from the sink and then lingered in the small bathroom, fingers gripping the porcelain as he looked back at himself in the mirror. The wrinkles around his face seemed more pronounced than usual, the bags under his eyes dark. The light in the room was harsh and unforgiving. He looked old. Old and scruffy, as if he’d been dragged down the street by a team of horses. 

McCree gingerly rubbed at his cheek and splashed water on his face, trying to wash away the headache. He felt only marginally better. A stiff drink would have made everything much more bearable but he doubted anyone would be inclined towards getting him a bottle of bourbon just yet.

For three hours they left him alone and so he used the time to take a nap, filled the room with his unconcerned rumbling snore until the arrival of more guards at his door woke him. They were there to escort him to a meeting. The guards seemed unsure of what his current status was; whether he was a prisoner or a guest and McCree could sense that uncertainty like a shark could scent blood.

He took his time pulling his pants and shirt on, wrapping his serape around his shoulders and resettling his hat upon his head.

“Let’s roll, gents.”

\---

The clan elders held court in a vast room with one wall entirely devoted to an impressive dragon mural. McCree had more than ample time to study its intricacies; the rolling hills, the little villages, the lovingly painted dragons that twisted along the length of the entire piece. He was barely part of the discussion that was being held, continuously marched in and out of the room. They knew he understood some Japanese and being unsure as to how much, they would have him escorted out whenever the conversation shifted to something they didn’t want him to hear.

They had not, at any point, asked for his input. They studied him, studied the mark on his shoulder, babbled on about dragons and meanings. When he wasn’t looking at the painting, McCree was watching the eight old men and woman seated before him. They seemed to range from between fifty to ninety, though that was a hazardous guess. The oldest could be over a hundred and a good diet and good medicine would keep the body going and the mind sharp as a tac. 

Hanzo was kneeling stiffly in the middle and slightly forward to indicate his position as at the head of the family but his opinion was never consulted. McCree felt a little sorry for him. The head of the clan entirely overlooked despite his presence in the room.

The rest of them were busy arguing and within the first forty minutes McCree had already worked out where the cracks were. Three of them were clearly firm allies, backing each other up subtly with sly remarks. Another two were also allied, though more vocally. Mother and son, he eventually figured out. The last was on his own; the youngest, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued. Dangerous.

It was that man who finally made a firm suggestion of what should be done with their guest, and when he did, it was in English. 

“He should be imprisoned,” he told the others. “Until we are certain as to his worth.”

McCree looked towards him and grinned, showed off some teeth. It was the classic option of push the problem aside until someone worked out how to make use of the new tool. They would contain him and there would either be poison in his food or a job offer. 

To McCree’s surprise, it was Hanzo that spoke up in disagreement. “The dragons have marked him,” he sounded stern and uncomfortable, his eyes on McCree unreadable. “He should be treated as a guest in this house.” 

The other man nodded slowly as if he cared what Hanzo was saying. “The dragons have been known to,” he paused briefly, winced apologetically, “error.” There wasn’t a sincere bone in his body.

Hanzo stiffened even further, hands curled into white knuckled fists on his knees. McCree could only imagine what sort of stress his muscles were under. Working out those knots would take hours. 

“Beggin’ your pardon,” McCree interjected finally, shifting his weight lazily from one foot to the other. “Ya’ll seem like nice folks and I’d hate for them dragons to get pissy because you didn’t treat me right. Now-” one of the women opened her mouth and McCree jumped right down her throat before she could say a word. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m talkin’, I’ve listened to you for near an hour now and it’s my turn.”

There was a startled pause as seven pairs of eyes looked down the line at the dangerous one and he nodded in response to their unspoken question. Sitting forward, Hanzo couldn’t have seen the exchange but McCree saw him wince slightly anyway, as if he knew exactly where the power was and it wasn’t with him. 

How much pressure did one need to be under before they tried to kill their brother and prove their right to rule?

“You’ve been discussing me without ever askin’ me why I’m even here and so I guess I’ll just tell you. Your dragons sent me to help you, Hanzo Shimada.” Hanzo blinked slowly at the reveal but was otherwise unmoved. “They’ve gone and shown me the future.” He patted the mark on his shoulder with his metal hand. “I’m here to turn you into the great and powerful warrior you’re destined to become. Heck, all of Japan will bow to the Shimada. To _you_.” 

The elders immediately started talking over each other until Hanzo lifted a hand. They slowly fell silent except for the dangerous one who laughed softly.

“ _You believe this nonsense?_ ” He scoffed. 

Hanzo slowly unclenched his hands, head lifting to show off the proud arch of his nose. “I will handle the foreigner from now on, uncle.” 

\---

Hanzo led him to another room.

They sat across from each other, McCree’s knees creaking and complaining as he lowered himself down. He swore softly under his breath as he settled, taking his hat off his head and placing it politely to the side. The small wooden table between them was quickly made use of and McCree stared down at the steaming cup of green tea with disappointment. At this rate he’d drink something as pointless as beer, as long as it was alcohol.

He picked up the cup anyway, let it warm his fingers as Hanzo stared and tried to say whatever words were clearly on the tip of his tongue.

They got there eventually. 

“Is it true?”

McCree glanced up from his tea, saw the hesitant hope in those brown eyes, suddenly so expressive now that they were alone. He winced inwardly, already regretting the ruse. He’d never liked to crush a man’s hopes, especially not now. Not like this. 

But it couldn’t be helped.

“Naw, that was horseshit,” McCree told him. 

He took a sip of the tea too soon and it burnt his tongue. A good enough reason to wince when he wanted to anyway, as Hanzo’s expression broke with bitter disappointment. 

“I should have known.” Hanzo closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose. When he opened them again, he was back in control of his emotions. “Then why are you here?” He didn’t give McCree a chance to answer. He pulled a printed picture out of his clothes, placed it on the table between them. “We investigated-”

“That was quick.”

“- and there is already one Jesse McCree. He is a known Overwatch operative.”

McCree looked down at the photograph. It made his heart twist. There they all were; the old gang. Gabe, Jack, Ana, Reinhardt, Torbjorn, Angela, little Fareeha. There he was as a younger man, mighty fine, standing there gripping his hat and smiling. Not the same hat. He’d lost that one months later during a firefight. Gabriel had replaced it within a day.

Old wounds ached anew. 

“How did you get this?” He asked, dragging it closer with a finger, touching it delicately.

“We have our sources.”

Well, they were a ninja organisation. 

Hanzo leaned slightly forward, glancing between the picture and McCree, assessing. “I thought at first this man to be your son, as the resemblance is striking, but I have my doubts.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s me.”

“Impossible.”

McCree gave a tired sigh and scratched at his head, ruffled his own hair until he knew it was a complete mess. “I ain’t lying about a damn thing. Not now. Look buddy, I’m here to help you. I don’t expect you to believe me right away but I was telling your brother the truth. I am from the future.”

As expected Hanzo seemed unconvinced, his lips downturned. He looked ready to get up and walk away. But he was young enough, curious enough, to stay where he was and listen.

McCree hoped that would be enough.

“There’s a future for you, Hanzo Shimada, and it sure ain’t a good one.” 

\---

“You wouldn’t happen to have any cigars, would you, sugar?”

McCree mimed smoking and the maid looked up from where she was tidying the futon in order to shake her head before she continued with her job. He sighed and waited awkwardly near the door until she had finished, leaving the room with a quick bow.

Hanzo had refused to hear any more.

The younger man had immediately held up a hand to halt any further explanation from McCree. His throat had worked, bobbing as his swallowed. McCree had let him think it over, sipped at his tea and waited but when Hanzo had spoken again, it was to thank him for his time and to inform him that he had ‘heard enough for now’.

They had parted ways and McCree wandered back to his room to think the last few hours over. 

Probably shouldn’t have led in with something quite so ominous but hindsight was 20/20, right? 

He’d just have to try a different approach. McCree was confident it wouldn’t be too big of a task. Hanzo wasn’t a raving lunatic ready to strike his brother down at any moment. No doubt there was a hell of a lot more going on beneath the surface. Invisible cracks that would someday tip him under and onto the path of attempted fratricide. It was just a matter of anticipating the break before it happened.

Which was unfortunately a scenario he was well versed in. It felt like both yesterday and a hundred years ago that he’d watched those same cracks spiderweb through friends and comrades, watched something he’d helped build and serve with all his heart tear itself apart. Back then he’d abandoned it all, turned his back before it all came crashing down on him as well. 

It wasn’t lost on him that this was almost some kind of redemption.

He thought about it as he moved around the room, looking over the sparse furniture and knocking casually at the walls, searching for hidden nooks and crannies. He found nothing but the chance they’d bugged his room was high. Technology was advanced enough that finding a small listening device without the right tools would be impossible.

He’d just have to keep his thoughts to himself. 

McCree left the empty room and wandered aimlessly through the hallways, as his guard trailed along behind. Hanamura Castle, ancestral home of the Shimada Clan. As far as he knew, Genji had never quite made it back here. His revenge had been centred around cutting off trade routes and crippling the business, plus a few high-level assassinations that had left the clan in shambles. Hanzo had already left by then. 

Gabriel had spent the entire process exhausted and angry, constantly trying to reign in the raging cyborg. There had been one particularly bad outburst when Genji had realised his brother was simply _gone_. That having left the clan, Hanzo was no longer on Blackwatch’s radar and they would not be sending anyone after him. It was the first time McCree had seen Gabriel hit the other man, forced to fight him until Genji was brought to his knees in great gasping sobs. It had been a bad day for everyone.

A sliding door opened into a garden. McCree stepped out into the late afternoon and stared at the bare branches of the trees and the light powdering of snow upon the ground. It was winter. 

The recall was sudden and sharp in his mind. 

It had been the start of spring when Overwatch had saved Genji. 

His breath plumed in the cold air. Grateful for his glove and serape, McCree followed the stone path through the garden, past the perfect little bushes and carefully placed ornaments, to the top of the wooden bridge where he stopped to stare down a the lazily swimming koi. 

He reached over to his shoulder, metal hand sliding under his sleeves to press against the new mark. He’d lost his deadlock tattoo a long time ago and now there was another brand on his skin. It made his hand tighten and gut clench. McCree’s anger was slow building but it was there all the same. He hadn’t asked for this. He’d have been just fine mourning the brothers’ death and moving on. He was no stranger to sorrow.

Instead he’d been forced against his will into the past by big and mystical fuck-off dragons. Into the den of arms dealers and assassins, to save an old friend and change the course of history. And what then? If his task was accomplished, would he be sent back to his own time or was he stuck here indefinitely? McCree was a self-proclaimed vigilante, bringer of justice. It didn’t really look good on his resume to help make one of the strongest criminal organizations even stronger.

It also wouldn’t sit well on his own soul if he let Genji come to harm.

He’d just have to get it done and think about the ethics of it later.

“You look like you need a drink.”

McCree nearly jumped out of his own skin when the voice came from right behind him. His hand thumped against his hip, looking for his gun as he turned to defend himself. The owner of his voice had registered in his mind by the time he’d completed the turn and his shoulders slumped back to relaxation. Genji grinned at him, standing right at the edge of the little bridge, nose crinkled in amusement. 

“Did I spook you, big man?”

“Near gave me a heart attack,” McCree admitted. “Looks like you’ve always been light on your feet.”

Genji’s eyebrows did a curious quirk upwards. “Family trait,” he said after a brief pause, popping a hand on his hip, tongue sweeping across his lower lip.

McCree gave him a once over, eyed the tight jeans and black shirt that had only two buttons done up to make sure his chest and the curled green tail of a tattoo was visible. It was not winter clothing. 

There was a glimmer in his eyes that promised trouble. 

“Well, you ready to party?”

\---

It was just past midnight by the time McCree half-carried Genji back through the castle gates, past blank-faced guards and through the front door for the very first time. It was impressive even in the dark and with Genji clinging to his arm, deliberately dragging his feet. 

“No faaaair, I want to go back,” Genji whined and then proceeded to swear at him in Japanese, slurring his words and stumbling every few steps so that McCree was forced hold him upright with an arm wrapped around his waist. 

“You’re a damn fool,” McCree shot right back in exasperation. 

That afternoon he’d let Genji lead him out a back gate and into a sleek black car, driven away to some underground party club where McCree couldn’t have possibly stood out more. Not only had he been older than every single other person in there, his height and clothing meant he might as well have been covered in neon lights. 

It had been hot and packed and people over half his age younger kept feeling up his ass despite his best attempts to swat them away. All the dancers on their little podiums were dressed up with animal heads and there had been something weirdly jaring about seeing a lithe, pretty body with a leering jackal grin where the face should be. 

At least he’d finally gotten some good bourbon to drown some of his frustrations but the good burn it had left in his belly had only lasted as long as it took for Genji to start a fight with rival gang members. McCree hadn’t even realised the Shimada had a rival gang. He was certain they’d swallowed up all their nearby competition but apparently there were some left and there had been enough of them there that the scuffle had turned into a brawl.

“And you ain’t that drunk, so get on your damn feet,” McCree snapped. His knuckles were bloody and sore, his chest hurt where he’d been caught by an errant elbow and somebody had unsuccessfully tried to kick his legs out from under him. The blow had landed but no amatuer was about to so much as make McCree rock back in his heels.

Genji only put more weight onto McCree’s arm, so McCree swore and dumped him to the ground in the hallway. When he looked up, Hanzo was there watching them with the hard expression of a man who was used to being disappointed by everyone he knew. 

McCree rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the urge to apologise. _Sorry for sneakin’ out, ma._

Genji rolled onto his belly at McCree’s feet and propped his hand on his chin. “ _Hello brother. We had a great night._ ” His grin was lopsided and playful. Hanzo’s lips tightened. “ _You should come with us next time._ Jesse-san, tell him.”

“There is blood on your lip,” Hanzo noted.

Genji turned his face into his palm, nuzzled his lips against his skin to try wipe the offending liquid away. 

McCree had to admit that Genji had been impressive. The backhand that had busted his lip open had been accidental, a hand flailing in the crowd, and not the efforts of any of the men Genji had riled up into a fight. He’d danced around _them_ effortlessly. 

Hanzo’s gaze shifted to McCree. “I did not expect you to come back.” His expression soured even further. He seemed uncertain what to do or say, something on the tip of his tongue. It was true that McCree would have had ample time to escape during the scuffle. It would have been so easy to melt into the crowd and disappear. It hadn’t once crossed his mind.

When he realised he’d been tested without even realising it, McCree gave a sharp bark of laughter. They were sneakier than he’d given them credit for. Genji had played his part admirably. 

“Was my uncle right about errors?” Hanzo mused. 

“Your uncle would know more about snakes then dragons,” McCree returned the shot in a slow drawl. 

Hanzo hummed softly, stood in silence for a long minute. McCree watched those dark eyes roam across him, judging him until he finally nodded sharp and decisive. “Very well. We should talk.”

\---

They left Genji on the floor and returned to the room they’d spoken in earlier but instead of sitting, Hanzo open the shoji screen at the back and stood on the wooden porch. There was no escaping the cold night air. It rushed in, bit at McCree’s cheeks. There wasn’t enough alcohol in his veins to keep it at bay and McCree regretted not swiping himself a bottle before they left the club.

“Here,” Hanzo offered a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “You requested these earlier.”

“Thanks,” McCree grunted.

It wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted but as soon as he had the cigarette lit and on his tongue, something familiar in his mouth, even if it wasn’t a cigar he could chew on, that was one layer of stress suddenly gone. He dragged the acrid smoke into his lungs, blew it out through his nose. McCree’s eyes drooped closed as he inhaled again.

They stood together in the cold night, watching the smoke swirl and die.

“What is my future?” Hanzo asked him.

McCree turned slightly, tilted his head to look at Hanzo. His face was half lit by the room behind them, the rest covered in shadows. There was a cautious expectancy on his face, as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted his own question answered but was waiting for the blow.

He exhaled smoke and spoke two words into the darkness.

“Brother killer.” 

McCree was watching Hanzo’s face intently for his reaction. Shock came first with widened eyes and pale cheeks. The slightest step back to distance himself from the words. But there was no denial. McCree waited for it, waited for the ‘I would never’ but it didn’t come, instead Hanzo’s eyes went dark with guilt. So the thought was already in there and it had taken only a moment for him to recognize it. Interesting. 

“You are lying,” Hanzo halfheartedly demanded.

“Well, to be fair. You don’t actually succeed. Overwatch saves him from the brink of death but you still put your best effort in, so you sure as shit earn that title.” McCree wasn’t inclined towards kindness, towards babying this man. He’d never been able to confront the older Hanzo for what he’d done and even if this one hadn’t sinned yet, the potential was there. “Carved him up like Christmas turkey.”

Hanzo flinched at the simile. 

“And I presume the dragons sent you to stop me,” he asked, his voice strained.

“There’s more to it than that but yeah, pretty much.” Hanzo pulled his kimono tighter across his chest and closed his eyes. McCree didn’t give him time to recover. “Though now that I’m here, I’m a tad surprised.”

He waited, cigarette burning down until Hanzo took the bait with a quiet, “... oh?”

“You don’t seem like the type,” McCree mused deliberately. “You and your brother worked together tonight. Doesn’t feel like the sort of relationship that ends up that messy.”

His spoken thoughts pulled a laugh from Hanzo, a bitter ‘ha ha’. “If your future is as real as you say, then that is clearly incorrect.”

The cigarette nearing its end and McCree took one last drag before he dropped it onto the polished floorboards, to be crushed with the sole of his boot. It was rude. Hanzo watched the act with a frown but said nothing.

“Right enough,” McCree agreed. 

Hanzo moved away from him, closer to the garden. The darkness embraced him. In the quiet night the sound of water could be heard nearby, a man-made stream burbling nearby. “So what will you do now? How do you intend on stopping this terrible act?”

“Are you still planning on killing him?”

“I have never been planning on killing him. As always, all I have ever wanted is to convince him that the clan should come first.” Hanzo’s sigh was long and pained. “I have already received the report from tonight. He was meant to take you out, give you the chance to escape. It was not to cause trouble. His thoughtless actions mean I will need to contact the Toyotami Clan and make amends. His failings are my own.”

Somewhere in the night a dog barked.

McCree walked closer, stepped off the porch and down to the gravel. It scraped under his boots as he sat down on the wooden flooring. Hanzo joined him slowly, knelt at his side. Despite the conversation, they sat together like old companions. 

“I do not wish to kill my brother but I can not deny the anger is there and thus the possibility. The thought sickens me but there are some nights where I have thought it would be easier to rule if he was dead.” It was clearly something hard for him to admit. McCree could hear the tired pain behind his voice. “I have been told over and over to bring Genji into line. It is my duty as his brother and leader. But he has been free for so long I do not know how to. Genji... father always loved him more.”

McCree leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands loosely linked before him. The tightness in his chest was sympathy. There had been many times in his own life where he’d done terrible things, took lives he shouldn’t have. He couldn’t judge Hanzo for that any more than he could judge himself. If his own sins could be redeemed, the ones Hanzo hadn’t even committed yet were more than forgivable. It wasn’t fair to treat him unkindly.

“Well, shit,” McCree muttered. 

Hanzo made a contemplative sound in this throat.. “I have never... spoken to anyone about my feelings before.” McCree heard the soft surprise in his voice, the shy pleasure. Turned out even a man raised as an assassin, born to command a clan of ruthless killers, needed friends. “Not like this.”

“Yeah, well, my ma always said I was a good listener.”

“I ask you again. What will you do to stop me? I do not trust myself not to make your future come true.”

McCree looked sideways. He couldn’t see Hanzo’s face in the darkness but he could feel his eyes on him. “Guess I’ll have to hang around then. Keep an eye on you.” As if he had anywhere else to go.

“Very well.” Hanzo gave a relieved sigh. McCree heard its trembling release. “I have a single request.”

“Shoot.”

Hanzo’s breath shuddered out again. 

“Please do not tell Genji any of this.”


	4. negotiations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this late chapter is brought to you by the letter M for migraine 
> 
> bit of violence in this chapter, yippee, let's get into it!
> 
> preemptively gonna change the rating to E here because there's no way we're getting to the end of this fic without dicks at some point

The whisky burned down his throat. He welcomed it. The relief almost instantaneous even with the alcohol nowhere near his bloodstream yet. The puff of his cigar was even better, glorious, heavy smoke in his mouth, the flavour curling over his tongue.

McCree reclined on the couch, eyelids heavy. Smoke slowly blew out of his slightly parted mouth like a dragon exhaling.

Hanzo watched him, eyes dark, posture rigid where he was sitting on the opposite couch, ass so close to the edge that his legs were still working overtime to hold him up.

“Thank you kindly,” McCree drawled.

He took another puff and hummed in appreciation. Very smooth. Hanzo Shimada was a generous host when you had a secret he wanted kept.

“You are satisfied?” Hanzo inquired. 

“I am,” McCree exhaled again, watched the smoke curl away with obvious pleasure. “For now.”

Hanzo frowned, looked sideways. 

McCree spread his legs and slumped even more, holding his cigar loosely between his fingers so that he could take another drink. “Actually, now that I think about it... I’ve got another favour to ask of you.”

Hanzo looked back at him, wary and assessing. 

“Need you to contact someone at Overwatch for me. I presume you’ve got someone inside.”

Hanzo didn’t confirm or deny McCree’s assumption but he didn’t need to. It was almost a certainty that an organisation like Overwatch would attract their enemy, hoping to gather useful intelligence. They had often figured out who the spies were and deliberately left them in low level roles with Blackwatch keeping an eye on their movements and feeding them the information they wanted them to know.

The cigar tip glowed red as McCree smoked lazily and waited. 

“Who do you need to contact?” Hanzo asked.

“There’s a gorilla called Winston. I’m sure you know of him. He’s from the Moon Colony. Smart as hell. Great guy.” The thought had crossed his mind on more than one occasion that he could try and contact Gabe instead. He would believe him, or at least be curious enough to investigate the claim of a time-travelling subordinate. Blackwatch would come for him, take him in and with his knowledge and experience over the years, McCree could make a difference.

Or he’d see everything fall apart again.

“I know of him.”

McCree grunted as he leaned forward to refill his glass. “If anyone can figure out this time travel stuff it’ll be him.” He poured the amber liquid, the partially melted ice clinking slightly as he settled backwards again. 

When his gaze flickered back to Hanzo, he was surprised by the sour expression, as if someone had just shoved a lemon in his mouth. He’d expected some resistance but this wasn’t how he’d thought it would look. “What?” He challenged.

“What is there to figure out?” Hanzo’s tone was slightly too snappy, his palms brushing against his knees as if they were sweaty. “The dragons brought you here.”

“They sure did,” McCree agreed. “And if your dragons feel like having a conversation about it, then I’m all ears. Otherwise I’d greatly appreciate having a chat with someone who might actually be able to help me.” Not to mention that without Genji’s ‘death’ and subsequent retrieval, McCree was certain the Blackwatch operation that had been put on hold would go right on ahead. 

Hanzo nodded once, a curt assent. Not pleased but unable to deny him. “I will make enquiries.”

“Thanks, sugar.”

McCree watched Hanzo’s nose crinkle in annoyance at the pet name. But Hanzo stood up without comment, hands brushing down his front, anxious. McCree could almost smell his nervousness, caught the tics with a practised eye.

“I will return later,” he announced and was three feet from the door before McCree interrupted his progress.

“Where you goin?” McCree asked.

Hanzo slowly halted, looked back over his shoulder. He took a moment to reply, as if deciding whether to answer or not. “I have a meeting with the Toyotami. They are demanding recompense for Genji’s actions.”

“Mmm,” McCree hummed, more smoke easing past his lips. “And mine.”

“What?”

“My actions. Pretty sure I remember breaking a nose or two that got in my way.” As he spoke, McCree eased himself up, stretched his arm over his head to get a kink out of his back. The cigar smouldered lazily in the corner of his mouth. “Someone’ll have to pay for that too, right?”

Hanzo eyed him through those sharp eyes. “You are my guest,” he said slowly. “That will be attended to.”

“Reckon I’d better tag along.” The muscles in his belly tightened as he stood, one fluid motion up to his feet. McCree grinned around the cigar at a bemused Hanzo. “Lemme just grab my boots.” 

\---

In the backseat of the car, in the comfort only expensive leather seats could provide, McCree eyed the sword resting on Hanzo’s lap. The sheathed weapon was far more traditional than he remembered Genji’s being but then Genji had never let anyone get a closer look unless he happened to be cutting them down at the time. If there was one thing he had been overly protective of it was _Ryūichi moji_.

Hanzo’s sword was beautiful in its simplicity. It was a weapon designed to be used, not for show. The hilt wrapped with blue where Hanzo’s thumb restlessly smoothed the fabric. Despite the traditional weapon, Hanzo had dressed in a black suit. His hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, clean cut and professional. 

“You reckon you’ll need to use that?” McCree asked and Hanzo’s thumb stopped moving, his fingers curling protectively around the hilt instead.

“Perhaps,” Hanzo side-eyed him. “Regardless, I am a Shimada and to be without a sword is an insult.”

“Has it got a name?”

Hanzo hesitated only a moment before he answered; lips parting, the answer lingering on his tongue before it eased out in soft reverence. “ _Hitsujō_.”

“Pretty,” he complimented.

Hanzo immediately corrected him with, “dangerous.”

“You know, it’d sure be nice if you’d let me have my own weapon back.” McCree said while arching an eyebrow in clear rebuke; still annoyed that Hanzo had denied his earlier request to take it to the meeting. It meant he’d have to scramble for a weapon if shit hit the fan.

“I will not have my American, who was responsible for assaulting Toyotami members, walk into the meeting with a gun in his hand,” Hanzo rebuffed. He was correct. That was hardly the right message to be sending. Even so, McCree longed to be holding Peacekeeper.

“Your American? Gettin’ mighty fond of me, are ya?” McCree teased instead, amused by the way Hanzo’s back snapped straight and his chest puffed out in indignation. Before Hanzo could respond with something cutting, McCree added, “you know they’ll think you brought me along as a gift, right?”

That eased him back down, allowed for a softly uttered, “I am aware.”

“Well good, guess that means you’ve got a plan for that.”

“I do.” Hanzo gave him a thoughtful glance before his gaze returned to the sword in his lap, fingers stroking along the hilt like a lover. “You knew they would make that assumption and still demanded to come with me?”

“Seemed like a bit of fun.”

That startled a huff of laughter out of the other man. 

The silence that followed was slightly more companionable and McCree watched the scenery go by for a whole fifteen minutes before his curiosity got the best of him. “You got a bow? Bet you’d make a damn good archer.”

They were passing through the city and McCree watched the people on the sidewalk as he waited for a response. It took a long time and he could almost feel Hanzo’s brain working, the atmosphere in the car suddenly far too heavy.

“I am a very good archer,” Hanzo answered after his long pause, the words spoken slowly, carefully. “My mother gifted me her bow before she died. I would not take it into battle.”

McCree grunted in acknowledgment. In his mind an older Hanzo stood high above the battlefield, arrow nocked and muscles rippling in his arms and chest as he pulled back on the bow. When he let the arrow fly it was unerring. The target dropped like a stone. The path was cleared. 

There had never been any denying his skills, no matter their personal differences. 

“Why would you think to ask that?” Hanzo fished.

“Where’s Genji today?” McCree countered with a question of his own instead, finally looking over. Hanzo was staring back at him, brows lowered in a frown. 

“He refused to attend. Answer my question.”

McCree scratched at his chin. “Intuition,” he answered, deliberately vague. To be fair, nobody had ever told him why Hanzo used a bow instead of a sword but you didn’t have to be a genius to make the connection. No arrow had sliced Genji almost in half. Hanzo could figure that out himself as well; McCree wasn’t going to spell it out.

Hanzo leaned forward slightly, a stray lock of hair sliding against his cheek as he fixed McCree was an intense and steady glare. “I have questions about my future.” 

The shock of learning about Genji’s fate had forestalled this conversation but McCree had been waiting for it to make an appearance. He rubbed at his chin with his hand and took his time formulating a reply. Hanzo waited, jaw set. ready to argue. 

“Used to live on the same street an old woman back in Santa Fe,” McCree began with instead, halting Hanzo’s protest with one metal finger to his own lips in a shush gesture. “Maria Luisa was her name. But we called her _bruja_. Witch. We were just kids, of course. Not good ones either. And we acted tough but she sure scared the bejesus out of me.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was telling this story instead of flatout refusing Hanzo’s request. The alcohol he’d drunk earlier was not enough for this trip down memory lane. 

“Well, one day we thought we’d break into her little house, mess up her stuff. Real tough guys. She didn’t even have her door locked. Didn’t need to. Everyone knew better than to bother Maria Luisa. Everyone but us.” McCree chuckled, a low almost tired sound as he relived the foolishness of his youth. “So in we go. Knocked over some things, stole her cigarettes. Wasn’t much to do or take but we thought we were slick.

Three days later my two friends got real sick. Doctors didn’t know what it was or how to treat it, and Maria Luisa, well, she only laughed. Said they’d gotten what they deserved. I went back to the house to apologise and return the cigarettes. I asked her. I said, ‘why ain’t I sick as well?’. I’ll always remember how she put her hand on my shoulder, looked me right in my eyes and said, ‘you will suffer enough already’.”

McCree absently rubbed at his shoulder, the phantom touch of a woman long dead. “And boy howdy did I suffer.”

Hanzo looked uncomfortable, both hands around the sword, knuckles white. 

“Bit long winded but what I’m getting at is this - you already know how bad it gets. You’ll have to forgive me if I choose to deny you the rest. Besides, that future is gone now.” Which came with its own set of problems. Hanzo was still the head of a criminal empire and McCree knew that he could become an unstoppable force. The sort of villain Overwatch would expend great resources to remove. 

In saving Genji from becoming a cyborg, McCree was also saving the Shimada Clan. 

“Do not treat me like a child,” Hanzo said evenly, his grip on the sword relaxing. “If you are here to help us, to help _me_ , this information could be of great use.”

“If at any point I feel like it’ll be of great use, I’ll be sure to let you know. Until then, you won’t get anything else out of me.” 

“You have not yet averted the future you fear,” Hanzo snapped.

McCree reacted to the petty threat by turning to face him properly, arm resting along the top of the seat, somehow taking up extra space with his presence alone. He smiled, an unfriendly curl of his lip, voice dropping in a low and meaningful drawl. “Sugar, I’ll break every bone in your body before you touch a hair on Genji’s head. Mark my words.”

Hanzo stared him down for longer than expected, even through his obvious discomfit. “I would expect no less.” His voice was reedy. Hanzo turned his head away and McCree straightened up, returned to staring out the window.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.

\---

With Hanzo being as fluent in English as he was, McCree had temporarily forgotten that his Japanese was subpar at best and that during an important clan meeting it would obviously be the language of choice. It wasn’t the first time McCree had been forced to enter a potentially dangerous situation where his understanding was limited to how well he could read tone and body language and it wouldn’t be the last. 

Thankfully he’d had years to hone that particular skill.

McCree had been paraded in behind Hanzo, introduced and then referenced in some rather unflattering terms that he absolutely understood, before he was relegated to standing just behind Hanzo’s chair. Hanzo’s bodyguard and driver was also there, arms behind his back, staring straight ahead through dark glasses. 

_Hitsujō_ had been at Hanzo’s hip until both the Toyotami leader and Hanzo had placed their respective weapons on the table between them as a sign of truce. Not that it mattered. The Toyotami men were both wearing guns and McCree was a hundred percent sure Hanzo had shown up with far more than just a single sword. 

The conversation was not going well.

Despite the fact that nobody had so much as raised their voices yet and that Toyotami Kobayashi seemed perfectly reasonable, the tension in both men was obvious and whatever Kobayashi was requesting kept being met by a very firm ‘no’ from Hanzo. 

McCree made his calculations from his easy slouch, hip resting against the back of the chair and metal hand playing idly with the rim of his hat. They were in a room above a small restaurant in a poor part of town and had carefully made their way up rickety stairs to reach the meeting place. Toyotami had been already waiting. Other than the table and two seats, the room was bare. It was clearly meant to be a safe place for the two clans to meet but McCree had been surprised by the modest surroundings and lack of escape routes. It set off alarm bells immediately.

It was curious how quickly and easily he settled into old habits, assessing the threat to Hanzo and himself as easily as breathing. 

The two men behind Kobayashi’s chair were big and burly, muscles straining against the fabric of their suits. He had to make the assumption that besides the obvious guns, each of them had a knife on their person somewhere. It would take him three big strides to get to the side of the first one, angling around the chair would make for awkward positioning if he needed to take one down quickly.

If they tried to take a shot at Hanzo, without his own gun he might be able to stop one but not the other. Which meant he would have to preempt the attack and move against Kobayashi first but that would put him in the line of fire. Hanzo could further complicate matters by whether or not he reacted and went for his sword. When he had been in Blackwatch, McCree had always been able to count on how Reyes would treat any situation. They had known their places and played out even unexpected scenarios as if they had been rehearsed. 

But that had been from years spent working together.

The possibilities were endless and McCree calmly ran them through his mind as watched the three men in front of him for any signs of aggression. They were playing it cool for the moment but Kobayashi’s back was stiffening and his smile was a little too forced.

When it happened, it happened as these things usually did - quickly.

Kobayashi sighed and made a gesture, it was the slightest flick of his hand, two fingers curled, the others held together. _There_ , McCree’s brain snapped and he was moving instantly. Not forward towards the enemy but into Hanzo’s bodyguard. He had the gun out of the man’s holster and up as the two Toyotami men were still reaching for their own.

No hesitation. There was no sympathy in him for two yakuza. 

Two shots, two bullets, two deaths.

Right between the eyes.

They dropped instantly, slumped at awkward angles. McCree kept his gun up and steady, aimed at Kobayashi. Hanzo was also standing, had somehow reacted almost as fast and McCree felt a strange rush of pride. He had his sword in his hands, the blade partially unsheathed. Kobayashi looked stunned, caught mid-movement, reaching towards the table for his own weapon.

When he realised his position, he leaned back instead and spread his hands out in a gesture of peace. 

There was as apologetic dip of his head and a small smile as if to say ‘oh silly me’. McCree couldn’t understand what he said next but he could hear the tension underneath, the forced calm he tried to instill on his words. There was already sweat shining on his brow.

“If I kill him,” Hanzo said calmly, speaking to McCree as he slid _Hitsujō_ entirely free - it gleamed where it caught the light, “there will be war.”

McCree’s mind was still running - were there more enemies waiting somewhere? Why had Hanzo even come with a single bodyguard? Something wasn’t adding up and was niggling at him. “Probably gonna be war anyway, sugar.”

Hanzo’s bodyguard was looking confused and slightly offended that his gun was gone but he’d had enough sense to get his knife out, not that it was going to be of any use. His slow reaction time meant that Hanzo would have been dead by now and McCree made a mental note to look into training Hanzo’s staff to be better at their damn jobs.

“You are correct,” Hanzo agreed.

When he struck Toyotami Kobayashi down, McCree witnessed the strength that would have destroyed Genji in another time. 

\--- 

“You were very impressive,” Hanzo told him later on the car ride back home.

McCree looked over but didn’t say anything right away, his gaze caught by a stray bloodstain on Hanzo’s jawline. They’d cleaned him up as meticulously as they could but there was only so much you could do for someone that had just sliced a man down the middle. McCree was no stranger to gore and violence, a bullet to the gut was a great way to have someone experience your ire. Guns were one thing; swords were another. It reminded him of the mess Genji had always left behind during their time in Blackwatch. These days his approach was slightly more measured.

No, it wasn’t _these days_ anymore, McCree corrected himself. He had to remind himself that the Genji he had known was now past tense.

His head began to ache, a pressure behind his eyes. He wished he had a cigar, a cigarette, _anything_. Instead he rubbed at his cheek with his hand, tried to drive it away by digging his fingers into the muscles of his face. 

“I did not expect you to react so quickly,” Hanzo spoke again, clearly waiting for some sort of response.

That finally dragged a reply out of McCree, punctuated by a derisive scoff. “You think they recruited me to Overwatch to stand around and look pretty?” He slumped lower and closed his eyes, his hat pushed forward by the back of seat.

“I am pleased that was not the case.” 

“Glad to be of service to you,” McCree rumbled. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I am welcome?” Hanzo questioned, sounding amused. 

“For saving your life, of course.” McCree’s eyes snapped open and he rolled sideways, hat tipped awkwardly forward just so that he could grin at Hanzo like a big lazy bear. “Now it belongs to me.”

He wasn’t imagining the sudden burst of colour on the other man’s cheeks and he found himself fondly amused by the reaction. “What?” Hanzo snapped, flustered. “Do not be ridiculous. You did not save my life. I was ready, I-”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” McCree interrupted. “You keep telling yourself that.”

That made Hanzo’s jaw clench. “Do not doubt my skills.”

“Like you doubted mine?”

Hanzo made a dismissive ‘tch’ sound in response.

“Not the same thing?” McCree teased. “That what you gonna say?” He rubbed at his cheek again, felt his lower back complain at his poor posture. The pressure in his head doubled, made his eyelids droop to block out the daylight. He let them fall closed, breathed in deeply through his mouth and filled his lungs.

Hanzo made another sound, a strange one that McCree couldn’t immediately identify. He didn’t bother to open his eyes until he heard the shuffle of fabric and felt Hanzo’s proximity as heat on his skin, as if he could feel the shadow of him.

“McCree, your nose is bleeding.”

Jesse grunted in surprise and sat up, had to dig his elbow into the leather and grab at the door handle to make it possible but achieved an upright position in time to watch bright splatters of blood drop to his pants. Three red stains, a pretty little pattern. 

“Shit,” Jesse swore, tipping his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Hanzo was right beside him, wordlessly pressing a handkerchief to his nose. McCree gathered the fabric with a mumbled ‘thanks’ and stuffed it into his nostrils. Blood dribbled down the back of his throat. _Put your head forward_ , Angela’s voice chided in his mind. He ignored it and stared blearily upwards as his head pounded aggressively behind his eyes.

Concern. That was what it had been. 

Hanzo had sounded concerned.

And now he could feel it in the startlingly cold press of Hanzo’s fingertips against his cheek, barely touching before becoming bolder and firmer. It felt nice. He focused on that instead of the pain. When Hanzo shifted his hand and gently encouraged his head forward, McCree didn’t resist, leaning forward at the wordless request. He breathed through his mouth, tasted blood on the back of his tongue. 

The gentle pressure to the back of his neck that followed was a blessing, if regrettably short-lived. It was his little huff of pleasure that ruined the moment, halted the gentle ministration. He could tell the moment Hanzo realised what he was doing and withdrew those cool fingers, returning them to his lap where his hands twinned together awkwardly. 

_Cold hands, warm heart._

“We will be home soon,” Hanzo told him, distance between them again, and so McCree grunted softly and closed his eyes.


	5. retribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little late but it's a decent sized chapter with a lot of stuff   
> so  
> enjoy the stuff! :)

He slept.

His dreams were violent things, old memories, some his own, most of them not. They blurred together, running, screaming, laughing. The roar of gunfire, the clash of swords, the feeling of falling. The touch of a familiar hand, a punch from someone he once trusted, bruises spreading beneath the skin, old wounds that wouldn’t quite heal. Mistakes, so many mistakes.

McCree woke the next day feeling only slightly more alive than when he had bedded down the night before. His back felt stiff from sleeping on the floor, not that it was unfamiliar for a man who had spent a lot of time on the run but he’d found that as each year passed everything was slightly less forgiving. 

At least the headache was mostly gone. There was a familiar tenderness to his temples and when he lifted his head from the pillow he moved slowly, certain that any harsh movement would set it off. But he managed to sit up without the pain bursting back into life and he was left with the older aches and an unhappy back. 

He stumbled his way into the bathroom, grateful for the small seat provided under the shower so he could ease into being upright at his own pace. The water echoed strangely in the small tiled room, the hot water scalding his back even with the distance it had to travel from spout to skin. He let it run through his hair, head bent, water trickling down his face.

He muddled through the dream for a while, chasing the threads but gave up on trying to pin anything solid down and thought about the day before. There were pieces missing, he could sense it. He just needed more information. 

They’d left him a yukata to wear but it was far too small. His skin still felt hot and clammy as he shoved his arms through the sleeves and wrapped the belt around his middle, only to look down and realize it only reached to his knees, baring his hairy legs to the world. He left it on anyway and stepped into the room, his wet towel draped over his head.

Genji was waiting for him.

The young man was laid out across McCree’s little bed, resting his head on his hand, mouth quirked upwards. Judging by the eyeliner, the smudged lipstick marks across his cheek and the undeniable scent of alcohol rolling off him, Genji had just returned from one of his nightly jaunts and his first stop had been McCree’s room.

“Hello, cowboy- _san_ ,” Genji greeted, eyes flicking up and down his form. “You look ridiculous.”

McCree ignored the comment as he raised his clothes to his nose and gave them a sniff. It wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to wear dirty clothing for long stretches but in such fine surroundings it seemed a shame to stink of explosions, blood and death.

He folded them next to the door as Genji watched, hoping the maid would take pity of him and get them cleaned, before he lost his legs to the cold.

“What can I help you with?” McCree finally asked, keeping a careful distance from this strange version of Genji, uncertain how to treat him, what his quirks were, how he would react. 

“I want to talk. We are friends, are we not? You said so yourself.” Genji was clearly amused that his presence was keeping McCree in limbo, unable to relax anywhere and standing stiffly in the open space of the room. 

“Just wanna shoot the breeze with a buddy?” McCree questioned in a slow drawl, wishing he had a chair to sit in. It was always far easier to look unperturbed and at ease while reclining. He’d have to ask for one. Heck, anything to fill up this bland little room with some life. If he was going to be stuck here for a while, he might as well make it somewhat comfortable. 

“Sure, sure,” Genji agreed. “Just talk. About silly things.” His grin was so wide it was borderline unpleasant. “You know what is especially silly? My brother taking his new American friend to meet the Toyotami and then coming back with blood on his hands.” 

McCree raised both eyebrows and started slowly towelling his hair dry.

“You would not know because you have been sleeping like a baby all night but the council is very excited.” McCree doubted excited was quite the word for their reaction would have been. “And of course they are blaming you for Hanzo’s bold action.”

“Think what you mean to say is your uncle is the one blaming me.”

Genji laughed approvingly. “Are they not the same?”

“I dunno, partner, I just got here.”

“Did you though?” Genji asked.

He was a sly creature. Jesse could see it in his eyes, recognized the same quality that had kept himself alive for so long. If McCree was the desert coyote, Genji was the trickster kitsune. He appeared as though he should be drunk but obviously wasn’t, his words were too quick, too sharp, and he had picked a moment when Jesse would be off guard.

“What was it you said?” Genji mused. “Hm? Ah, I think it was time travel.”

They would all need to sit down and have a chat about why McCree was here eventually; Genji was a big part and keeping him in the dark wouldn’t help in any way, but right now, “I think you should have a little talk with your brother.” 

“He believes you.” It wasn’t a guess. Genji sounded certain. He expression darkened. “I tried to talk to him but he does not want to talk to his brother. He likes talking to you instead.”

McCree could imagine how that had gone. With the knowledge of the actions of his future self, it made sense that Hanzo would avoid Genji. But it was important to remember he wasn’t here to repair their relationship, merely to stop it from coming to destruction. He wasn’t going to play counsellor.

Genji rose. He went from reclining to upright in one fluid motion, and the stumble forward into a step was clearly affected. He followed the movement right up to where McCree was standing, then stood peering up at him with a half-smile. “Tell me about the future as well.”

McCree’s let his towel fall along his shoulder, dropped his hands to his side and stared down at Genji. The fingers of his right hand flexed. “I’m here to fix a mistake your brother made. You’ll know the truth one day but that’s all I’m gonna tell you right now.”

“A mistake my brother made that you will not tell me about,” Genji said, “which means it has something to do with me.” Too quick, too smart. McCree held back a curse.

“Yeah,” McCree admitted.

“But you will not say?”

“No.”

Genji accepted the firm refusal with a slow and thoughtful nod. The lipstick smeared across his lips was distracting, a shimmering bright orange. It would have looked good in the beginning, before a night of frivolity. Even so he was still beautiful and McCree fought the urge to step backwards, create some space.

“Listen,” Genji stood on tiptoes, close, too close, “if you hurt my brother,” there was the sharp press against McCree’s belly that he struggled not to react to, sucking in his stomach slightly at the threatening prick of the knife, “I will ruin you.” 

There was some dark comedy in how Genji would seek protect his brother when his destiny had been to suffer at Hanzo’s hands. 

McCree grunted and moved slowly, metal wrapping around Genji’s wrist and applying just enough pressure that he winced slightly, with just the squish of his cheek before he controlled the reaction. “Let’s get this right out of the way,” McCree squeezed again and then let go, arm dropping back to his side, “I don’t take kindly to threats.” 

They squared off, barely breathing and eyes locked... then the knife in his belly moved away and so did Genji.

“I’m here to help you, Genji,” McCree told him gruffly, the tension between them downgrading from threatening to open distrust, “whether you believe me or not. You’ll get your answers soon.”

Genji reacted with a flippant shrug, the knife hanging casually from his fingers as he moved to stroll past. It didn’t make him any less dangerous. This indifference was all the more terrifying. “I just wanted you to know,” he said, his tone light as he stopped in the doorway, shoulder leaning against the wall, “that I will be watching you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” McCree called after him as Genji strolled away.

\--- 

McCree chased the last of his rice around his bowl, scraping the remains together near the rim with his chopsticks so that he could tip it all into his mouth with minimum effort. There was something about Japanese rice that was so deliciously filling and settled so well in the stomach. It didn’t beat eggs and bacon as the ultimate breakfast, but it got the job done properly. He hadn’t realised just how famished he was until the maid (who was quickly becoming his new favourite person) had arrived to serve his meal and take his clothes. 

Hanzo had turned up halfway through breakfast dressed in a fine suit and looking agitated, his greeting curt and his movements jerky. McCree had pointedly ignored him, except for raised eyebrows and a hand waved lazily at the space opposite. Hanzo had balked at first, paced back and forward instead but he’d eventually knelt, and McCree’s silence (except for the sounds of his eating) slowly bled some of the stiffness from his shoulders. 

He was never truly relaxed but it was a start. Even Hanzo’s brow seemed too tight, pulled back by a severe ponytail. McCree missed the greying tufts of hair that had somehow softened the older Hanzo’s features.

Hanzo kept fiddling with the small cloth wrapped package he had brought with him, the item now sitting on his lap, his fingers smoothing and tugging. McCree had some inkling of what it was, yearned for it with entire being, but kept his eagerness to himself and continued to finish his meal as if they had all the time in the world. 

Other than Genji’s somewhat unpleasant visit, the day was looking up. It was the sort of effect only a decent meal could have. He’d learnt that undeniable fact of life during some of the worst missions, hunkered down in dark and loathsome spaces, wet and uncomfortable but all it took was a fresh baked piece of bread to make the world a little brighter. Here and now with sunlight streaming through the window promising a bright and cheerful winter day, McCree couldn’t help but feel upbeat. It helped that his head didn’t feel quite so rotten anymore.

He finally finished his breakfast and placed the bowl down with his chopsticks balanced neatly on top.

“You are done?” Hanzo questioned immediately, readjusting, knees shuffling as he leaned intently forward.

“Sure am,” McCree patted his belly. “I’m full as a tick. Kudos to the chef.” He tried not to glance at the object Hanzo was holding and instead settled back, one arm holding his weight as he stretched one leg out past the small table.

Hanzo glanced at his bared leg with a small frown before looking back. McCree watched him, could see Hanzo’s brain working, jaw clenching. “I hope you are feeling better,” Hanzo asked, stalling.

“Fit as a fiddle,” McCree informed him.

Then finally - _finally_ \- Hanzo lifted the unwrapped package and offered it with two hands, palms flat. “A gift... for you.”

Can’t gift a man something he already owns, McCree wanted to say but he kept the snide remark to himself and instead uttered a grateful thank you, too eager to get his hands on the item within. He peeled the simply blue cloth away to reveal Peacekeeper, gleaming and beautiful, restored home. His delight must have shown loud and clear, rolling out in his words like a hug when he said, “sure do appreciate this, partner.”

Hanzo looked away with a sharp nod. “You have earned it,” he muttered.

McCree turned his revolver over in his hands, studied every last inch, already feeling far more settled and in control than he had since he’d arrived in the past. Now that he was reunited with Peacekeeper part of him had been restored and there was no obstacle he couldn’t overcome. 

“I could get you a newer gun,” Hanzo offered. “This is quite an old model for someone from the future to carry.”

McCree laughed, running fingers lovingly along the weapon. “Just wait still you see what this baby can do,” he promised.

“I look forward to finding out,” Hanzo said and there was something to his tone that made McCree look up to study his face. There was an eagerness to him, that same agitated energy that he couldn’t seem to hide. The dark circles under his eyes made it clear he’d had very little sleep and whatever emotions he was riding on was keeping him awake.

“Anything happen while I was asleep?” McCree asked.

“We have another meeting to attend,” Hanzo told him and his gaze snapped to McCree’s leg again, as if that bared limb was somehow responsible for something heinous. McCree wriggled his toes and Hanzo looked like he’d been stung. “You should get changed.”

“Is this the slicing and dicing sort of meeting?” McCree asked in favour of moving anywhere.

“It will not come to that,” Hanzo answered, his mouth quirking slightly in a smile, as if entertained. “My uncle merely wants to discuss how we are to deal with the Toyotami. They have declared war and have already retaliated by killing three of our men.”

“That was quick,” McCree grunted. 

“Yes, now get changed.”

McCree carelessly scratched his chin with the tip of his gun. “Yeah, about that....”

\---

The suit was far too tight and uncomfortable, especially around the shoulders but it was worth it for the opportunity to see the look on the guard’s face when Hanzo commanded that he strip; a mixture of panic and what he was certain had been a terrified arousal. McCree had immediately started laughing, earning two scathing looks. There hadn’t been any time to search out anyone who was more likely to fit McCree’s stature, so he was stuck with sleeves that were too short and his suit pants resting above his calves which made him feel like a schoolboy. His normal shoes, spurs and all, weren’t quite the stylish statement when paired with an undersized black suit. 

“I will order you proper clothes,” Hanzo told him, fussing in the hallway in front of what McCree presumed to be the meeting room. It was a different part of the house from the last one. Hanzo turned McCree towards him with a hand pressed flat against his upper chest, spinning him sideways to face each other. “I am sorry there is no time to dress you properly.”

Hanzo was trying to do up the last button but tugging the fabric across was doing more harm than good and McCree was certain buttons were about to start flying. “Leave it,” McCree suggested, catching one hand in his own, the action immediately stilling Hanzo’s efforts. The other man tried to tug his hand away and scowled when he was denied.

“Let me go,” Hanzo snapped, testing McCree’s grip again.

“You can’t shove me in a suit and right into a meeting without a pep talk, sugar.” The admonishment was light and he released his tight grip on Hanzo’s hand as he spoke but Hanzo’s hand remained in his. Hanzo was staring at it as if he was sure why it was still there. “What do you want from here? You want me to back you up against your uncle? Or am I just there to smile and look threatening? This is your show but you’ve gotta tell your actors what to do, babydoll.”

Hanzo’s eyes flicked upwards to meet his gaze. “You speak as though my uncle is an enemy.”

McCree didn’t answer right away but he did let go of Hanzo’s hand, and watched as Hanzo pulled it back to his chest and held it there as if wounded. “Just a feelin’ I’m getting,” he said cautiously. 

“I see. We will... talk about this later,” Hanzo ended the conversation, gaze sliding towards the door, his jaw tightening. “I trust you to handle yourself appropriately... or inappropriately as the situation demands. I would like my uncle to know that I have you under my control.”

“Yer lucky I’m a good liar then,” McCree teased but his playful grin shifted almost immediately into a serious nod. “But I gotcha. Let’s get in there before he gets worried.”

Hanzo’s lips parted, breathed out unspoken gratitude.

Then he turned away and opened the door to other room. 

\---

Shimada Kotaro was a man short of stature but built like an ox. His beard was neat, a strange echo of the one an older Hanzo had worn and McCree couldn’t help but wonder if there was some connection. His eyes were darker, quick and intelligent, looking McCree up and down as he stepped in the room with efficient assessment. Nobody had made him feel quite like a mouse being inspected by a hawk since he’d first stood in front of Ana Amari. 

Thankfully he was a lot older than what he’d been back then and he withstood the searching gaze with a smile and tip of his hat as they entered the room. 

This business clearly wasn’t as formal as the previous meeting had been, the grand hall replaced by a large but fairly simple study. There was a desk that McCree was certain cost more than most houses and the walls were lined with bookcases but it felt homier than the first time, which he considered far more dangerous. 

Kotaro was standing behind the desk, just beside the plush leather chair, not quite angling to sit in it yet but clearly on the verge of planting himself in that important position. There was only one other chair in the room and it faced the desk. McCree could only imagine what sort of deals this room had scene, what sort of information Blackwatch would have loved to be party to.

“Hanzo,” Kotaro greeted, a small bow, just a dip forward.

“ _Oji-san_ ,” Hanzo returned the greeting as he walked further into the room, past the chair and around to the other side of the desk where he sat himself down. McCree made sure he kept the grin off his face as Hanzo shoved himself down into the high-backed leather chair as if he belonged there, unmindful to Kotaro hovering right beside him

Kotaro didn’t make a fuss and McCree was watching his face carefully for a reaction but all the other man did was shift a little to the side and reach for a piece of paper. His gaze flicked once towards McCree standing in the middle of the room and he spoke quietly in Japanese, leaning in for Hanzo to hear. 

“I want him here,” Hanzo answered in clear English and Kotaro’s nostrils flared slightly, the only sign of annoyance he had given so far. 

“Very well,” Kotaro acquiesced smoothly. He launched into quick Japanese which Hanzo cut off midway with a curt, “English please”. Kotaro’s eyelids flickered as he just as swiftly responded with, “of course - well, as I was saying,” he didn’t look towards McCree but Jesse could feel his disapproving regard all the same, “the Toyotami have made several moves against us already. We were forced to abandon three of our smaller safehouses. The losses are,” his hand swayed through the air, “negligible.”

“I see,” Hanzo hummed, taking the paper that Kotaro offered him and scanning the contents. “The Toyotami Clan does not have the resources or manpower to combat us. They are severely outmatched. Despite the disturbance that was caused-”

The door crashed open with impeccable timing and McCree’s hand slapped against his thigh, searching for the gun that Hanzo had politely requested he leave in his room, ‘just this one time.’ It wasn’t necessary, there wasn’t a threat - though Genji’s shark grin could almost be counted as one as he swaggered into the room. He walked past McCree with a wink and dropped heavily into the one available chair.

“I know, I know.” Genji slouched, elbow resting on the arm of the chair and hand waving lazily as he spoke, “I am late.” He stretched his legs out, hooked one foot over the other. “You may continue.” 

There was a long and startled pause, twin looks of blank confusion on Hanzo and Kotaro’s face. 

McCree coughed loudly into his hand. 

Hanzo blinked; the paper was twisted and crumpled in his hand. He swallowed and gave the slightest shake of his head before he did indeed continue, “as I was saying... despite the disturbance that _Genji_ caused,” Genji craned his head around to look at McCree and mouthed ‘you and me’, “it was never in their interest to kill me... or rather, try to kill me. They must have known that our retribution would swift and final.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Kotaro agreed, still looking at Genji with a small frown. “They would have been better off accepting whatever token compensation you allowed. They are strong but not strong enough. It was a foolish error. One I did not expect them to make. The council wants immediate action. A show of strength.”

“If they had killed you,” Genji chimed in cheerfully, “I would have been the clan leader.”

Hanzo was smoothing the paper out and his hand stilled, brow furrowing. “You told me you would never take that title.”

“It would only be for a moment,” Genji told with a careless flick of his wrist. “It would be my duty to seek vengeance on your behalf, to wipe the Toyotami from the earth with my bare hands. You would be dead anyway. I hardly think you would mind if I called myself the boss for a bit.”

“He speaks with little tact but he is correct,” Kotaro added, soft and calm. “Thankfully that did not come to pass and now we face the issue of the Toyotami together.”

“Together,” Genji repeated, and once again Hanzo and Kotaro looked at him as if he had spouted an extra head. McCree was getting the very distinct feeling that they were not used to Genji participating in clan discussions in any way, especially not this late in the game when Hanzo would have been close to trying to kill him. 

The question still remained who exactly was behind those whispers in Hanzo’s ear. Was it the entire council putting pressure on Hanzo that had driven him to that final act or was there one voice louder than the others? 

“So,” Genji said into the silence, “what’s the plan?”

\---  
As McCree had already discovered, the Shimada Clan did not have halfway measures. There was no gentle approach, no caution or mercy - they were the sword striking swift in the night. He was swept along, offering very little to the planning progress. Instead he had simply watched, off to the side and keeping a careful eye on Kotaro. McCree felt unsettled throughout the meeting, fighting back the urge to drop a calming hand onto Hanzo’s shoulders whenever the younger man’s stress broke through in the tightening of his jaw and the thin press of his lips.

Genji’s presence had clearly made both Kotaro and Hanzo uncomfortable but his suggestions had been insightful and useful, disguised as casual offhand remarks. 

In the end, the Toyotami Clan could not withstand the rage of the dragon. 

The Shimada Clan began their assault with one of the most efficient tactics available: halting business. The Toyotami Clan’s main trade was prostitution and once word got out that the Shimada Clan would take personal offense to anyone patronizing a Toyotami run brothel the clientele dried up almost overnight. Workers disappeared off the streets, shops closed down, and the Shimada gangs roved the streets looking for trouble. 

When the time came to act personally, Genji refused to be left behind and had joined them at the car, dressed for battle and his sword in hand. 

McCree was there in his cleaned clothes, armour restored to him, flashbangs in place. With Peacekeeper at his side, he had no fear for what was to come. A part of him was looking forward to the thrill, to seeing Hanzo and Genji at work. Kotaro stayed behind, a cautionary measure he had called it. He had suggested McCree stay back as well but one withering stare from Hanzo had ended that conversation. 

Toyotami Kobayashi had four children; three sons and a daughter. Toyotami Keiko was the first to fall, her twin blades like flashes of lightning. Despite being the second oldest, she had been named the heir and it was on her word that her clan had chosen to retaliate against the Shimada for the death of her father. Or at least that had been the story spilled by Toyotami members, along with most of their innards. 

They killed her in her own home.

The Toyotami held court in a large residence that probably only just fell short of being called a castle. They had the security, plenty of rugged gang members milling about with weapons close at hand. None of them were as swift or as brutal as they needed to be. Hanzo and Genji were up and over the wall like fucking squirrels and McCree stood outside the door with the rest of the men until it was opened by Genji, a bright splash of blood splattered across his cheek.

“You know,” Genji had remarked as the life faded from Keiko’s eyes, her mouth still curled into an angry snarl and her fingers stretching desperately for her blade, “father once said she would have make you a good wife. He was hoping to make the arrangement but she refused.”

McCree lit a cigar, puffed at it lazily as Hanzo wiped his sword clean on a piece of cloth.

When Hanzo didn’t reply, Genji moved around the large living space, picking up various objects; mostly pictures and expensive looking trinkets. “It was probably because she prefers women. Hey, this is cute,” he held up a small glass bird for McCree to see before he put it carefully away in his pocket. “Mine now.” 

“Put it back,” Hanzo ordered, stepping over Keiko’s corpse. 

“No,” Genji refused instantly. 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. 

“Settle down, kids,” McCree drawled. “Show ain’t over yet. We’ve still got three to go, right?”

“Akihiko will be dead by now. We sent our best men to his location. Hikaru will not put up a fight once found. The only one we need to concern ourselves with is Hayato. He is very skilled.” Hanzo slid his sword back into the scabbard and held it loosely against his side, thumb pressed against the hilt. He looked ready to unleash it again at any moment.

They left the room.

McCree cast one last look at the dead woman behind them, a lifeless shell when only moments before she had been screaming rage and brutal swift attacks. There had been something powerful and magnetic about her, something so very alive and vibrant in her eyes but there wasn’t any room in his heart for regretting a life cut short. That was something you learnt to let go of very early on. 

What was done was done. 

Hikaru was the youngest, he was waiting for them pale and sweating in the library. He put his hands up immediately in surrender, barely out of his teens, messy bleached blonde hair and dark freckles on his nose. When he caught sight of Genji, his cheeks flushed with bright spots of colour, words tripping off his tongue in a rush, desperate pleading. 

Hanzo moved to unsheathe his sword and Genji halted him with a hand on his arm. “Wait... please.” There was a tense pause and then Hanzo gave a single curt nod. 

“Thank you, brother,” Genji sighed and made his approach. He stopped in front of Hikaru, shoulders slumped and expression grim.

“Genji- _kun_ ,” Hikaru sobbed.

“Why?” Genji asked. “Why did your father start this?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Hikaru replied, shaking his head helplessly. His voice was such a quavery mess, McCree could only catch a few of the words. He caught _stupid_ and _please_ a lot - and then suddenly his attention shifted, some instinct making his ears perk and hackles rise. 

Smoke drifted lazily from the cigar, curling around his face and towards the ceiling as he looked around. The library was only partially lit, with the further shelves in the darkness. Somebody had clearly loved reading. This was some Beauty and the Beast level book obsession. McCree stepped closer to Hanzo, hovered at his back, his spurs clinking as he took position.

Hanzo looked over his shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised curiously. 

McCree rolled the cigar to the corner of his mouth and grinned around it. “On guard, babydoll,” he warned, nice and soft, leaning in close to Hanzo’s ear. Hanzo straightened and faced forward, his grip on his sword tightening. McCree remained where he was, his gloved fingers curled loosely around the grip of his gun.

Genji was still talking to Hikaru, one hand on his shoulder, their conversation low and quick. They were clearly familiar with each other.

Hanzo leaned backwards, his back pressing into McCree’s chest. His head tilted towards McCree, nose crinkling as he got a good whiff of the cigar smoke drifting between them. “Second shelf to the right,” he murmured.

With Hanzo’s ponytail brushing at his cheek, McCree tilted his head as if nuzzling the shorter man and carefully eyed the shadowed space. “Good eye,” he praised in a low rumble when he spotted the little patch of darkness that was very much person shaped. “You trust me?”

Hanzo swallowed before he spoke, McCree heard the gulp of it as the saliva rolled down his throat. He felt Hanzo’s head shift slightly, that ponytail bobbing against his cheek. He couldn’t help but drag in a deep breath through his nose, took in the pleasant scent of cedar and soap.

“I do,” Hanzo allowed finally, and McCree’s chest constricted strangely.

“ _I’m so sorry_ ,” Hikaru sobbed, shoulders hunched where Genji was gripping him. The young man struck with a sudden upwards stabbing motion, the knife mostly hidden by his hand but the action too obvious to be anything else. Hanzo was already moving, darting forward to Genji’s defense and leaving McCree to deal with Hayato as he came bursting from the shadows just like a ninja in one of those classic old samurai movies.

The man was _quick_. It took only a second for McCree to unholster his gun, arm straight out to put a bullet in his brain but the shinobi was already on top of him. The gun went off, took a chunk out of his assailants shoulder but there wasn’t any stopping his forward motion, not with his sword driving forward for a killing strike. 

The cigar dropped from his lips, disappeared from sight and mind as he was forced to sidestep and deflect the blade with his arm. The steel scraped and sparked along the metal arm, sending vibrations shooting up into McCree’s shoulder as he lifted his gun again, getting off a second shot that the man only barely managed to dodge. Jesse stepped into him, pushed the blade back towards the shinobi with his arm as a barrier between them, threw his superior weight into action until his enemy was forced to give ground.

There was a loud squealing cry from behind them. It distracted Hayato for only half a second and that half a second was all McCree needed to shoot him in the leg. He let out a cry from behind his mask, eyes wide with the sudden pain, leg collapsing beneath him and sending him tumbling to the ground. He still aimed a messy swing in McCree’s direction that was easy to avoid by simply stepping away.

“Dead or alive?” McCree called out quickly, not looking back, knowing better than to give the other man even a second. He could already see a hand sinking down his thigh, reaching for some other weapon that would close the distance.

He was relieved when he heard Hanzo’s voice, in the form of a quick and angry, “dead!”

“Game over, friend.” McCree aimed to kill. “Say your prayers.”

Hayato closed his eyes.

McCree pulled the trigger.

Free to check on the others, McCree found Hikaru slumped on the ground very much alive but in agony. His arm had been broken and he was curled over it, rocking back and forth, cradling the appendage. His crying was soundless, mouth open to drag in sharp little breaths, face pale with the pain. 

Genji stood defensively in front of him, blocking Hanzo’s progress, arms raised to hold him back. He was talking too quick for McCree to understand but Genji clearly wanted Hikaru left alive and Hanzo clearly wanted him very dead. 

“ _You_!” Genji snapped directly at McCree when he realised the cowboy was able to intervene. “Tell Hanzo we need the information.” He levelled a glare at McCree that spoke volumes. It said ‘do this one thing for me’ and McCree could feel the desperation behind it.

“He is worthless,” Hanzo countered. “There is no information that we need.”

“Yes there is,” Genji countered, shifting his searing gaze back to Hanzo. His arms waved as he spoke, ready to hold Hanzo back if necessary. “It does not make sense. You must realize-”

“He tried to kill you! His family turned against us!” 

“But _why_?” Genji asked. 

“He has a point,” McCree interjected mildly and Hanzo shot him a betrayed glare.

Genji licked his dry lips. “Hikaru is - was,” he flinched from his own words, “no, he _still_ is my friend. You know that. Or you would if you paid any attention to anything I say and do other than the fact that it is always deemed _wrong_.” His voice was rising, taking on a bitter, angry edge. “Kobayashi- _san_ was happy as long as his family and clan was safe. He would never have attacked or tried to kill you, especially not because of me, because of one scuffle. It makes _no sense_.”

There was so much more to this than just one overly-ambitious disgruntled clan. As far as Jesse knew, the Japanese were big on honour but there was a big difference between that and destroying your clan. Even if they had succeeded in killing Hanzo, their own blood would have been spilled eventually. Hanzo had said as much during that meeting together with Kotaro. And Genji had been there with his grin, _I would have been the clan leader_. 

There was a single breath as Hanzo’s gaze darkened, brows drawing in as the same suspicion reached his heart. His arm twitched, fingers tightening around the grip of his sword.

“Hanzo,” McCree warned, his voice cracking like a whip.

Hanzo jolted, startled, turned towards McCree with wide eyes. “I was not,” he protested, then let the words die on his tongue as he turned his face away with shame in the tilt of his head. 

Genji looked between them, back and forth, trying to read the exchange. 

On the floor, Hikaru whimpered.

“Let’s pack up and head home,” McCree ordered. “Genji you’re in charge of him.” He jerked his chin at the young man on the floor. Genji looked on the verge of arguing but McCree was giving him a chance to step back and pull things together and he accepted it was a nod. Not quite grateful but at least glad to shelve this fight for another time.

“Hanzo,” McCree ventured.

Hanzo stood stiff and unresponsive. 

That headache was back, threading through his skull like knives. 

“Hanzo, stop acting like a child,” he snapped and Hanzo flinched away from the sound. Genji’s head jerked up in surprise from where he was kneeling beside Hikaru trying to ease the smaller man upright, eyes widening. “Come on now. You know it ain’t like that. _You know it_. And this sure as hell ain’t the time for sulkin’.” He forced his tone to gentle, like you’d soothe a skittish colt, _easy now McCree_. “We’ll sort this all out back home.”

Finally Hanzo moved, sheathed his sword and turned to face them with his face wipe clean of expression. “Yes, I suppose we will,” he said.

\---

Dawn was arriving by the time they returned to Hanamura Castle. Genji left them with Hikaru in tow, after wringing the promise out of his brother that he would be in charge of the interrogation process. Hanzo looked tired, as if he had added ten years onto his shoulder in one night and the weight of it was pushing him down. They would all talk soon was the consensus between them. They would sort out if the Toyotami Clan had truly made such a fatal error on their own or if there was far more to the story and they would do it together. It was a good start.

But now there was darkness creeping at the edge of McCree’s vision, the pain constantly building. _Not this again_. He heard Hanzo calling his name as he stumbled away down the hall, but he ignored it, ignored everything that wasn’t putting one foot in front of the other.

He already had his gloved hand clamped onto his nose, preempting the nosebleed. Cursed the dragons in his mind over and over again as he staggered into the wall, once, twice. When he finally crashed to the floor of his bathroom and his hand fell away, blood splattered red and bright against the white tiles. 

“Are you dying?” Hanzo asked him from the doorway, had followed him here just to stand there and ask that as if enquiring about the weather. It was the same tone with which you would ask, ‘is it raining?’ outside.

“I don’t know,” McCree grunted because he didn’t know, because this wasn’t normal, this wasn’t right. 

Hanzo made a sound, a soft distressed hum. “Stay there.” As if McCree could even stand, could even move his head without the threat of blacking out. “I will get the doctor.” Then he was gone with hurried steps. 

McCree dropped his head to the cold tiles.

The brand on his arm ached deep deep down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens!!


	6. connecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late but not as late as I expected it to be! Thank you to abel for helping me along, my keeper of facts and product tester! 
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who has commented so far. It really means the world to me and you've been so kind and supportive. When I'm stuck or uncertain I go back to read them and I'm immediately pumped to keep going. Thank you so much! 
> 
> Hoping you'll enjoy this chapter because I really like it!

The dying day turned the sky into a tapestry of colours; pink, purple, orange, blue. They bled into each other, the sun shedding the last of its light as prettily as it could. McCree admired the sight from the garden, hunkered down beneath one of the skeletal limbs of the cherry blossom trees, facing the oncoming cold with nonchalance and a bottle of bourbon. He cradled the bottle to his chest like a lover, when he wasn’t lifting it to take a kiss. 

There was a single bud on the tree, fighting against the winter on one spindly little twig. 

Spring was coming.

McCree took another swig of his drink, let it slide down his throat and sit warm in his belly. The headache had retreated but there was still an unease under his skin, the sense of being on a knife’s edge. He had no doubt the issue would arise again. It wasn’t a matter of if, simply when. And exactly how it was to be dealt with was something he’d need to figure out sooner rather than later.

Movement at the main building caught his eyes, the shoji door sliding open. Hanzo stepped out, gaze searched for and landing on McCree out in the garden. Even with the distance between them, McCree could see his frown. He lifted his bottle in greeting.

Hanzo stood at the edge of the decking, back in his comfortable traditional clothing and only wearing socks on his feet. His decision didn’t take long, he stepped down and followed the stone path to where McCree was sitting. The look on his face was less than impressed, mouth downturned.

Hanzo went to speak and McCree cut him off before he could hear the lecture, his metal hand patting the ground beside him. “Sit down.” It rolled out more of a command than he’d intended and Hanzo’s nostrils flared with displeasure.

“I would rather stand,” Hanzo responded tartly. “You should be inside. You aren’t-”

“I was watchin’ the sunset.” McCree jumped in again, cutting him off. “Pretty ain’t it?”

Hanzo didn’t even glance up, instead crossing his arms over his chest and setting his jaw as if ready for a fight. He probably was. Knowing when a battle wasn’t worth starting, McCree sighed and slowly eased himself to his feet; metal hand doing the most of the work while the other was busy being wrapped around the neck of his bottle.

“You win.” He spread his arms, alcohol sloshing in the half empty bottle. “Let’s go inside.”

“Are you drunk?” Hanzo asked him, still frowning. Was he ever going to smile?

“Honey, I’m either stone cold sober or unconscious with my head in my own drool there ain’t no inbetween. Come here,” McCree swaggered into Hanzo’s space, dropping an arm across those too-tight shoulders and leaned his considerable bulk against him. To his credit, Hanzo didn’t falter but his shoulders did hunch up, face turning away from where McCree’s was a little too close. 

“I am going to stop getting you alcohol,” Hanzo grumbled.

“What’d I say about threats?” McCree reminded him, and barely had a chance to chuckle before he realised he was putting the wrong face to a different conversation. The words formed before he had a chance to filter them, “Ah, that wasn’t you. Either way, I don’t take kindly to ‘em.”

“Who was not me?” Hanzo asked, of course latching onto the one part of the sentence McCree didn’t want him to. 

“Nothin’.” Maybe he was a little bit drunk.

They started walking back to the house, an awkward process complicated by Hanzo refusing to uncross his arms and McCree refusing to stop leaning on him. Their steps were never quite in line and McCree’s hip kept bumping against Hanzo’s, making them both stagger.

They made an odd sight as they made their way down the hallway towards his room with the house staff pointedly looking in other directions. “What shampoo do you use?” McCree asked, burying his nose into the loose dark locks. It was ridiculously soft.

“Stop it,” Hanzo hissed, tilting his head away, a blush high on his cheeks. McCree waited to be pushed off but it never happened, so he stepped away by his own accord, nearly careened into the wall but recovered before he made a complete fool of himself.

His room had been tidied, clothes folded, the towel he’d left on the ground now gone but some remnants of the days activities still remained. Hanzo immediately walked over to and picked up the empty bottle of alcohol and held it out in disgust. “What is this?” He demanded, holding it gingerly as if too disgusted to even touch it properly. 

“What does it look like?” McCree grumbled, inelegantly dropping down onto his futon and flopping backwards. His hat was a very uncomfortable sort of pillow at this angle and he still had his bourbon in hand, bottle tilted in a loose-fingered grip but he was glad to be back to ground level.

“You have just recovered and you choose to poison yourself,” Hanzo snapped. He dropped the bottle and stalked over, taking the still-half full one from McCree’s unresisting grasp. “Typical.”

“The devil you know,” McCree drawled, too fuzzy to argue or take offense. It wasn’t the first time he’d been harped at for drinking or smoking too much, it was just usually a woman in his ear. Angela tutted disapprovingly in his memories. She was out there somewhere. Saving lives, as usual.

Hanzo grumbled as he put both bottles by the door and McCree thought that would be that but Hanzo returned, knelt down beside him and slowly eased the hat out from behind his head. He held it in his lap, fingers playing with the metal emblem at the front. 

“Thanks,” McCree muttered, reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He waited, considered not even bothering to ask the question Hanzo was waiting for. He already knew what the answer would be but McCree eventually let the words out anyway, just to get it out of the way. “What’d the doc say?” 

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Hanzo answered, sounding angry and disappointed. 

They had spent the previous day at a private clinic running tests. Hanzo had hovered constantly nearby making the doctors nervous as they made sure McCree wasn’t dying from a brain hemorrhage. He’d gone along with the long process and made sure Hanzo promised him a couple of bottles of the hard stuff for his troubles. 

“Don’t sound too disappointed, sweetheart.” 

Hanzo clucked his tongue. “I did not mean it that way.”

“I know you didn’t,” McCree sighed. “But they were never gonna find a darn thing. There ain’t no easy fix and you’re foolish for thinkin’ it.”

“Foolish,” Hanzo repeated, muttered the word bitterly as he stared down at that in his hands.

Sensing the conversation was taking a bad turn, McCree tried to shift it somewhere useful. “Hey,” he said gently, calling Hanzo’s attention back to him. “I really need you to contact Winston.”

“I know,” Hanzo put the hat aside, smoothed the top with his fingers before he put his hands in his lap. He looked so young and uncertain like this, his hair in long waves around his shoulders, gaze downcast. His shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “And I have.”

With a surprised grunt, McCree sat up to focus better. 

“He wants to speak to you tonight in a holovid to verify your identity. He is suspicious but curious. I imagine that curiosity is why he has agreed to secrecy for now.” 

“Well, damn,” McCree uttered in slow gratitude. “I appreciate it, sugar.” This was finally the step that he needed. If anybody would be able to make heads or tails of his mysterious ailments and his trip from the future, it was going to be Winston.

Hanzo made a soft sound of acknowledgement. 

“What about Genji and Hikaru? How’s that lookin’?” McCree asked, leaning forward with his legs spread, shoulders slumped and relaxed. His thoughts were still buzzing at the edges but he’d had enough practice that keeping things coherent was easy enough. 

That got an instant reaction, the frown back in full force. “Hikaru continues to insist that he knows nothing and Genji refuses to use any useful methods.” 

Useful methods was code for torture and while it certainly had its time and place, McCree doubted now was one of them. Blackwatch had taught him all he needed to know when it came to forcing information out of people; he’d been good at it but unlike some of the others he’d never enjoyed the process. 

“Let Genji handle this,” he advised. 

Hanzo gave him that calculating stare. It was the kind of look that made him regret starting the conversation and warned him that he wasn’t going to like whatever came out of Hanzo’s mouth next. “Jesse McCree,” his full name rolled out strangely, the first time Hanzo had ever used it, “can you tell me without any doubt that I did not try to kill my brother because he had turned against me?”

Yup, he didn’t like it. 

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Answers crowded on his tongue, his mind filled with a rush of thoughts. He was definitely not on the ball enough for this one. Wasn’t quick enough to lie, was too slow for a carefully worded response to come across properly. 

The problem was that he wasn’t sure. 

McCree had always just presumed Genji had been wronged, the thirst of vengeance that the cyborg had harboured for years had seemed proof enough. They'd never really talked about the nitty gritty, and would Genji even tell anyone the truth, if he had hurried along his own fate.

McCree shrugged helplessly. 

“I thought so,” Hanzo said, rising to his feet. 

He left the room to Jesse’s silence, stopping only to pick up the bottles of alcohol and take them with him. Denied a final drink, McCree flopped back with a groan. He dropped his arm across his face, and finally spoke the one word that made sense, “fuck.”

\---

_CONNECTING..._

The blue holovid screen with big white letters hovered above the desk, filling the room with a gentle glow. As McCree watched the little blue dots blinked in and out of existence, waiting for someone to pick up at the other end. It had been like this for an hour now and after the first thirty minutes he had kicked Hanzo out of his plush leather chair, making an unnecessary fuss about his ‘sore head’ and ‘old bones’. Hanzo had reminded him that his sore head was his own doing this time but had risen anyway to browse the books on the shelf, his fingers brushing the bindings as he walked past with slow and measured steps. 

They waited, time clock ticking past midnight and the queasy feeling in McCree’s gut increasing as the minutes past. A shower, a nap and a big meal had done him a world of good but his mind was still mulling heavily the earlier exchange with Hanzo.

He drummed his metal fingers on the desktop, as the dots continued their slow winking. _Come on, Winston._ He needed this, needed a familiar face and someone he trusted to at least attempt to make sense of his current state. The nosebleeds and headaches were _wrong_ , he felt it as an intrinsic truth. A weight had settled on his soul, far heavier than any he had born before. The purpose he had been given, a life he had been thrown into without his permission, was slowly getting the best of him. He couldn’t ignore it but dealing with each new set of consequences was starting to grate.

Hanzo finished his last circuit of the room and leaned back against the desk next to McCree’s chair, a book pressed against his thigh with his fingers. “If he does not answer the call,” he said, “then I have done my part.”

McCree sighed and scratched at his chin, dragged his fingers roughly through his beard. “Don’t,” he warned. 

That made Hanzo frown, posture rigid. “You are upset?”

“M’just tired,” McCree grumbled. His mind crowded with information and instincts, half-formed suggestions and ideas. Hanzo, Genji, Kotaro, the Kobayashi, Overwatch. 

Hanzo studied him, his gaze another weight. “Would you like some tea?” There was genuine concern in his voice and McCree tore his gaze away from the screen in order to look at him properly. Those pretty lips downturned at the corners. Hanzo spent most of his life frowning but McCree was starting to learn how to categorize them. This was displeasure and worry.

“Naw, I’ll be right,” he assured.

When he didn’t say anything else, Hanzo huffed softly and lifted his book. He flipped it open, apparently at random. McCree was certain he was pretending to read, rather than actually reading but he wasn’t about to call him out for it. 

McCree’s fingers drummed a rhythm on the expensive wood.

Hanzo’s jaw tightened, his eyes stared down at the page unmoving.

“Your brother,” McCree let the words break the silence between them with almost shocking suddenness and watched as Hanzo’s whole body stiffened. He turned his hand, absently feeling beneath the desk, metal fingers scraping the underside in a half-hearted search for an obvious bug. There wouldn’t be one but it gave him something to do.

“My brother,” Hanzo prompted. 

“He threatened me.” McCree wished he had his cigar, dropping information bombs was always better when he could punctuate his words with a cloud of smoke. Instead he had to settle for the unfeeling blue glow of the holovid and his tired stare. “For you.”

He had messed up earlier, had known it immediately but hadn’t been in the right mind. Regardless of what might be going on with Genji or whether any of Hanzo’s fears had merit, McCree had to erase them somehow. 

“For me?” 

“Pulled a knife against me,” McCree moved his hand to his stomach, patted the exact spot the knife had pricked against his skin, “and warned me not to hurt you. He was serious ‘bout it too. Now,” he held up a hand to hold off an immediate response from Hanzo, “that doesn’t sound like a man who is planning on betraying his brother, does it?”

Hanzo’s mouth twisted. “Unless he _expected_ you to tell me.”

“Really? That’s how you’re gonna spin it? Genji cares about you. If he’s gonna stab anyone in the back it’s gonna be me.”

“I would not allow it.”

McCree rolled his eyes. “That’s real sweet of you, honey.”

Hanzo stared down at his feet, his discomfort obvious. McCree could only imagine the thoughts racing through his head, wondered how deep his suspicions ran. It wouldn’t be that easy to sway him to the right track but this was a good push in the right direction... he hoped.

“We need to talk to him,” McCree started to suggest and Hanzo’s head jerked back up with an immediate shake of his head. 

“No,” he snapped.

“About me and the future,” McCree continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “You’ve gotta clear the air. He already suspects-”

The holovid screen beeped and changed, filled up with the face of a gorilla peering at them. “Ah, apologies for my tardiness,” Winston rumbled, adjusting his glasses and leaning so far forward the background was swallowed up by his face. “Well,” he squinted, “you certainly _look_ like Jesse McCree.”

Surprised by the rush of fondness that gripped his chest, McCree leaned forward with his forearm resting on the desk, his conversation with Hanzo immediately pushed aside. “Waiting weren’t a problem. It’s mighty fine to see a familiar face,” he near crooned. This was his salvation and if he could have kissed Winston right there and then he would have. 

“And you say you travelled through time?” Right down to business. Winston had always had a single-minded approach to problems. 

“Jumped back around eleven years by my reckoning.”

Winston hummed thoughtfully. “I must admit I am curious as to why Jesse McCree would end up in Japan with the Shimada Clan.” The gorilla tilted his head to look at Hanzo, who had moved to stand beside McCree’s chair but yet to do anything but scowl. “Hello there, Mr. Shimada.”

“Greetings,” Hanzo responded swiftly.

“It’s kinda a long story,” McCree began, but when he explained, it really wasn’t that long at all - death and dragons summed it up nicely.

“Highly fascinating,” Winston said as he settled back further in his chair allowing McCree a better look at the laboratory behind him. He had only ever wandered through that space a few times but nostalgia slammed into his chest. “But I hope you understand that as a scientist I can not merely take your word on it.”

McCree had figured that and was ready to prove himself. 

“Remember,” he started to say only to hold his tongue as he considered various memories. Winston’s brows arched but he waited patiently, as McCree tried to find one from the right time. It had to be before Genji, something they would both recall but personal enough that he wouldn't have been able to get the information anywhere else. If Winston couldn’t refute that only the real Jesse could know of a certain moment then the gorilla would be convinced. 

There was a firm pressure on his shoulder, Hanzo’s fingers curling inwards, supportive.

Ah, yes, of _course_.

“You get a new mug yet?” McCree asked. “Lena was real sad when the old one she gave you got broke. Damn shame.” He stared at the gorilla, tried to convey most of what he needed through his eyes as he reminded him of that horrible mug Winston had asked McCree to _accidentally break_. It had been hideous. “You always regretted it. But don’t worry, she gets you another one eventually. Christmas present. You treasure it then because this time you’re not just the ‘really smart gorilla’, you’re a scientist.”

“I-” Winston started to say and then held it back with a small shake of his head, giving McCree more time.

“You’re a good fella, Winston. I still owe you for covering for me in the kitchen. Had my face shoved full of the last Twinkie when Reyes came in looking for his snack. We thought he’d bought it when you blamed it on Morrison; were pretty damn pleased with ourselves. Of course, later he had me run laps for two hours because I was ‘looking a bit too well fed’, so maybe we didn’t pull a fast one on him at all.”

There had been sad memories, with lost friends and quiet moments full of tears but this was better and Winston was smiling, a crooked grin. “Haha, yeah, uh, I do remember that.” He studied McCree’s face, seemed to be making his final conclusion and then - “Wow, dragon fueled time travel, that’s a doozy!”

“Sure whupped my ass. Dorothy had it way easier.”

“Am I right to presume you are hoping for me to help you return to your own timeline?” Winston asked, and McCree immediately felt Hanzo’s grip on him tighten. He glanced up but Hanzo was staring at the holovid, expression blank. Even so McCree could sense his turmoil through their touch. _Hanzo hadn’t considered that option_ , he realised. To be fair, neither had McCree. 

Now the option was on the board and Hanzo didn’t like it. McCree filed that information away for later.

“Nah, got things to do here,” he told Winston but the words weren’t just for him. Hanzo relaxed beside him, ever so slightly. “There are some problems I’m hopin’ you can help with though.”

“He is sick,” Hanzo jumped in.

“Or some approximation of it.”

“Ah, I see,” Winston pulled his personal writing tablet closer, fingers hovering over the screen. “Please tell me your symptoms.” 

“Two migraines with nose bleeds. Second one was worse than the first. I’ve got a pretty damn good pain tolerance and this knocked me flat, had me on my knees. And before you ask, we went to a doctor and there ain’t nothing wrong physically.”

“Hmm,” Winston was writing down notes as McCree spoke, “what were you doing when the migraines struck?”

“It was right after a fight, both times.”

Winston’s finger paused and he glanced up. “Did you use..?” His eyes flicked to Hanzo and then back to McCree again, let the word hang there ominously. _Deadeye_. Smart of him to be cautious.

There was no reaction from Hanzo over the deliberate omission from Winston but McCree would be a fool to think he had missed it. 

“Nope, didn’t need to. Could have made those shots in my sleep.”

They talked for an exhaustive length, a tireless Winston quizzing McCree on how it had felt to travel through time, the migraines and everything in between. With a new problem to solve, his head was entirely in the game and eventually McCree had to lift a hand and beg for a timeout. “Winston, I’m real worn out and there ain’t nothing more I can tell you.”

“Uh, yes, of course. My apologies. You do look quite tired.” He stared downwards, scrolling through his notes. “This would be easier if you would come to HQ, I can speak to Command-”

“That will not be possible,” Hanzo said firmly.

“Sorry Winston. I’ve got things to do here but I trust you’ll be able to figure this out for me.”

“I shall endeavour to do my best,” the scientist declared. 

“Then I’ll be right as rain.”

Winston smiled at the show of faith. McCree could imagine him blushing beneath the fur. The younger McCree hadn’t had that much time for the gorilla. They had been friendly and had shared moments together, but he’d always been consumed with Blackwatch and his training. That had been his top priority; not making friends with the science division. 

There a lull in which Winston kept clearing his throat, wanting to speak but holding back.

“I, uh, I have a question,” Winston began eventually, tripping uncertainty over his words and avoiding eye contact. “Am I, ah, alive in the future?” He asked, and winced immediately, hands coming up with a frantic wave. “Wait, no, don’t, uh, answer that. My curiosity has gotten the better of me.”

“You’re alive,” McCree answered anyway, and watched as Winston’s shoulders sagged in relief. 

“And uh, Tracer?”

“Alive,” McCree replied, holding up a hand to stop any further questioning. “That’s enough of that. Thanks for your help, Winston. I know you’ll keep this all a secret for now. We’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, yes. I will get to work immediately. I will send a message through Mr. Shimada’s contact if I discover anything that will help. It has been... good talking to you McCree.”

“You’ve got no idea, big guy.”

They said further goodbyes and Winston was replaced by a familiar blue screen. The words now reading _CALLED ENDED_. It took McCree a few long and thoughtful minutes to realize that Hanzo was still touching his shoulder and at his side, and had allowed him to sink into his own mind to mull over his reconnecting with Winston in silence.

McCree reached up and over, patting at the hand with gentle affection. Hanzo immediately retreated, pulled away from the touch and stood back.

“You done good,” McCree praised as he placed his hands on either hand-rest and pushed himself up out the chair with a tired ‘oof’. 

“If he tells his superiors...”

“He won’t.” McCree was certain. And if he did blab, it would be by accident; probably running his mouth excitedly over this fascinating puzzle. Couldn’t really fault the guy for that.

Hanzo turned off the holovid and the lights instantly adjusted to a better level, chasing away the shadows. “Come. It is time you slept.” He walked to the doorway and waited there as McCree plodded slowly across the room.

He smothered a yawn with his hand. “I’m knackered.”

Hanzo’s head tilted. “Knackered?” He questioned, frowning at a word he didn’t know. 

“Yeah, uh, an expression, means I’m real tired. Learnt that one off Tracer.”

“Ah, I see.”

The door to the study closed behind them, the hallway loomed dark and quiet in the early hours of the morning. “Well,” McCree said, “I’ll see you in the morning.” He got half a step before a hand wrapped around his wrist, halting his progress.

“It is late and your room is on the other side of the house.”

McCree froze. He was tired but not so far gone that the implication of what Hanzo could be suggesting didn’t crowd into his mind. 

“... yeah?”

It wasn’t the most eloquent he’d ever been and his mind immediately focused in on the hand around his wrist, the thumb pressing into his skin. He turned to face Hanzo with a slow shift, looked down at him, searching his face through the shadows, seeking answers. His thoughts rolled back to the touch to his shoulder, the careful affection, the concern, the cold fingertips that had touched his head, the angry voice that had snapped at the doctors.

They’d been getting closer.

That was for sure.

Despite everything, despite knowing what Hanzo could do and become, despite how irritating and stubborn he could be, McCree had started to consider him a friend and someone worth protecting. But nothing more. Surely nothing more. There was too much to do, too much to consider. It would be a needless complication.

Yet when Hanzo tugged at his wrist again and said, ‘come to my room instead’, McCree followed. 

Hanzo’s room was only a few doors down. not enough time to reconsider or steel himself to pull away. McCree stood in the darkness as Hanzo moved across the space, turning lights on as he went. The bedside lamp lit up, shed a soft glow across the massive western style bed that dominated one side of the large room. 

“Hey,” McCree complained, seeking something to distract himself from the strange position he’d walked himself into, “how come you get a proper bed and I don’t?”

“It is important our guests see us as traditional,” Hanzo explained. “And I like big beds.” He stood beside it now, black hair around his shoulders, eyes half lidded and McCree would have had to be made of stone not to stir in some way.

_You’re older and better than this. Leave now._

He councilled himself but didn’t so much as shift an inch back, instead walking further into the room to the leather couch covered in colourful embroidered cushions. There was a lot more life to the room than he had expected. Some bright artwork, a vase of flowers, a small desk covered in beauty products and knick knacks.

“McCree.”

McCree nearly jumped out of his skin, hadn’t realized that Hanzo had slunk up right behind him. He turned, his ass hitting the back of the couch. Hanzo looked nervous, a slight flush to his cheeks, frowning as he looked aside. _Walk away. If you do this and he tries to kill Genji, it’ll just make it harder._

He was so pretty though. McCree had always _known_ that but now that it was seemingly on offer, it was a stunning realization. He wanted to kiss the frown from his lips, make him smile and groan, wrap his fingers through his hair and - boy howdy it had been a long time. A very long time since he’d even bothered to touch himself. It was a _bad_ idea but McCree had built half his life on bad ideas. 

“Hanzo...”

“I have a question.”

McCree’s heart leapt into his throat. He swallowed and rumbled a casual, “shoot.”

Hanzo blew out a quick breath and only then did McCree realize he was holding something. He lifted it quickly for McCree to see; a framed picture of - _wait a second?_ The picture was a movie poster, three characters embracing, an older woman frowning, the title spread across the top as ‘The Great Romancing’.

“Dotheymakeasequel?” 

“What?” The words had ran out so quick and the mood change so abrupt, McCree had a case of whiplash. “Who the what now?”

Hanzo tutted angrily and lifted the picture higher. It was signed. “Do they make a sequel?”

“Uh,” McCree said.

“At the end of this one they left room for a sequel and the actors suggested they wanted to come back but the director will not make any comment. He is busy with some silly television drama about werewolves.”

McCree lifted his hand for the picture and Hanzo pulled it back against his chest, clearly unwilling to part with his prize. “Uh,” he said again, scratched at his chin again instead. “Yeah, they do.” The memory was hazy but it was there, dragged up from the vault by Hanzo’s enthusiasm. “It’s called The Great _Big_ Romancing. Reyes was really mad about it for some reason. Timothy does-”

“Do _not_ spoil it!” Hanzo snapped but he was smiling, really smiling, looking at the framed mini-poster fondly. “Mmm... I am pleased. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, sugar.” McCree gave a wry smile, aimed only at himself. _Silly old man._

Hanzo hummed happily and stepped back. He nodded at the couch. “You can sleep here.”

It was not how he had expected things to go five minutes ago and that was for the best, even if his shoulders did slump a little in foolish disappointment. “Right,” McCree sighed. “You got a blanket for me?”

“Of course.”

He got two blankets and plenty of pillows to keep him comfortable through the night, a big upgrade from sleeping on the floor. But the highlight was Hanzo’s casual stripping down, as if McCree wasn’t in the room and padding naked back and forth between the bedroom and bathroom. McCree only undressed down to his pants, then sat with his blanket pulled around his shoulder, watching what was honestly the peak of physical fitness get ready for bed. His earlier attraction still remained, but Hanzo’s indifference as he went about his business left little room for arousal. It was like watching a piece of art brush his hair and teeth.

When Hanzo was finally tucked away and the lights were dimmed, McCree curled up as well. His eyelids were instantly heavy, as he sunk like a stone towards sleep. The days events dragged him downwards; too much alcohol, the talk with Winston, his misguided interpretation of Hanzo’s intentions. He needed rest.

“Goodnight,” Hanzo voice called gently from the darkness.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” McCree replied, or he thought he did, as his exhaustion caught up to him and carried him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahha i'm so sorry


	7. showdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all really smashed it with the comments last chapter! *____* I was so delighted to read them all! You're the very best! ;D I've planned the next one and I'm _very_ excited to keep writing!
> 
> This chapter has a lot of bits that I like in it, so I hope you enjoy!

The path to consciousness was a slow one. McCree was only half-aware, slipping in-between awake and asleep, uncertain of dream or reality. High chattering voices invaded his ears; his head buzzed with them. Someone was moving around him, a presence that caused no alarm and was simply there, making no effort to be silent. He was comfortable, warm but his bladder was full and his neck was twisted uncomfortably against the pillow. These were all slow realisations, his eyes still firmly shut.

Then someone jostled his legs, shoved them unceremoniously aside so that they could sit on the couch. McCree groaned softly and shifted, rolled onto his back and was immediately informed of the distant pain in his temples and the familiar groggy band stretched across his forehead. Too little sleep, too much alcohol. He lifted himself up onto his arms anyway, pulled his legs up and peered blearily across to where Hanzo was sitting, hair loose and dressed in a blue nightgown.

“Hey,” McCree rasped.

Hanzo looked across at him, a dripping spoon poised halfway to his mouth. “Good morning,” he said, and took a bite of food. It crunched loudly.

McCree leaned his shoulder and head against the couch, turning just enough to see the big holoscreen full of bright and colourful cartoon animals. He watched it through a half-lidded gaze, the jumping enthusiasm and loud Japanese voices almost too much for him to understand. There were also what seemed to be children and that guy was hugging a sentient pile of leaves. Ah. Right.

“Is this... Pokemon?” He asked.

“Mhm,” Hanzo answered around his food.

“You watch Pokemon.” It wasn’t a question, it was a slow and wondering statement. The warrior that was Hanzo, the leader of the Shimada Clan, got excited over romance movies and Pokemon. He shouldn’t have been surprised, he doubted anyone would peg himself as an avid knitter but this discovery somehow made Hanzo so much more _real_.

“It is the best thing on at this time,” Hanzo responded, a touch defensively - as if there wasn’t a million channels and the internet that made watching something you weren't quite interested in an obsolete practise. 

McCree smiled to reassure him that his comment had no ill intentions. “So uh... how many of them are there now?” Asking questions about someone’s interest is always a good way to foster friendship, an old mentor chimed in his mind. Ana. Fuck, he missed her. “The Pokemon that is.” 

“1406,” Hanzo answered instantly. 

“Thats... a lot.”

“There are sixteen generations.” As if that explained the amount; which it probably did if you knew what that even meant. 

McCree shuffled into a proper seated position, dropping his feet to the ground and leaning over to look into Hanzo’s bowl. Brown crunchy lumps bobbed in the milk, leaching cocoa goodness.“You have cereal,” he sounded petulant. “I want cereal.” Rice and seaweed was great and all but nothing beat a hangover like sugar lumps posing as a healthy breakfast.

The spoon herded the remaining cocoa puffs together. “There is some for you on the table.”

There was indeed a box of cereal, a second bowl and a bottle of milk waiting for him. McCree fixed himself his breakfast and settled back, cradling his prize in his hands. The characters on the screen were battling, calling encouragement to their Pokemon. “That guy,” McCree pointed his spoon for emphasis, “looks the same as he did when I saw the show some twenty years back.”

“He is the main character.”

“Ash, right?”

“Satoshi.”

“Sure.” McCree took the first bite of his cereal, chewed happily. He hadn’t realised quite how much he’d missed milk until it wasn’t on the menu. “So what’s his deal?” 

“Do not talk with your mouth full,” Hanzo reprimanded, placing his finished bowl on the coffee table. “He is the main character. It was eventually revealed that he and his Pikachu, due to their contact with the Legendary Pokemon, are immortal. The girl in this scene is the granddaughter of one of his old friends.”

“Sounds kinda heavy for a kids show.”

“Just before the Omnic Crisis, due to the political climate, the show took on a darker tone and many of the old characters were killed during the Great Pokemon War.”

The cartoon children on the screen were celebrating, bouncing happily with their arms linked. “Things sure changed,” McCree remarked. A lot of the media after the Omnic Crisis had shifted to lighter tones; people had been sick of death and destruction. They’d needed a reason to laugh again.

Hanzo shrugged. “Nobody wants to see Pokemon kill each other anymore.” 

They watched together until the episode was over and the next had started, McCree topping up his bowl twice. There was a comfortable silence between them, complicated only by McCree’s own thoughts as he mulled over last night. It was easy to blame his misconceptions on a lot of things - but even if when he snuck a glance, Hanzo was still terrifyingly pretty in the morning light.

But he was also someone McCree couldn’t afford to get overly attached to. Friendship was one thing, just straight up _liking_ the guy wouldn’t stop McCree from getting the job done. Lovers was a completely different ballgame. When McCree made things physical, he did so with his heart, and it had gotten him in trouble more than once.

Was Hanzo someone to take sex lightly? Would he even be interested? He never looked soft but right now he was at rest, lips tilted upwards in contentment. No longer untouchable. 

Before McCree even realized it he had reached out, fingers brushing up a loose strand of Hanzo’s dark hair.

Hanzo startled and turned his head before McCree could finish the action of tucking it behind his ear; the hair sliding silky soft from his fingers instead. “What are you doing?”

“Looked like it was in your face,” McCree lied smoothly, dismissing the action with an easy grin.

Hanzo hand came up, tips of his fingers brushing his cheek as he pushed the hair back in McCree’s stead. His frowned, looked uncertain. Then it was gone, replaced by decisiveness, the young master back in full force. “We have things to do today.” He stood, waving his hand sharply to turn off the holoscreen. “Get ready.”

“Sure thing, boss.” McCree drank the last of the milk down and also rose, albeit with more creaks and groans from a night on the couch. 

Such a fool he was. Lusting over the wrong person. Testing the limits in ways he shouldn’t. He had to ease up, play it cool. There were bigger problems that needed to be attended to. 

McCree scratched at the back of his neck as he plodded towards the bathroom, desperate for a piss and some cold water on his face. Anything to help him wake up and put his head on straight. 

\---

The room Hikaru had been given was small but clean, with one barred window and a little bed. The young Toyotami was seated there now, in clean clothes, arm bandaged. It wasn’t the usual scene for an interrogation and McCree was hit by an odd sense of claustrophobia as soon as he stepped into the room, forced to stoop under the doorframe. He felt like he was taking up too much space, even when he pressed back into the corner.

Hanzo looked just as displeased by the arrangement but Genji was spread nonchalantly on the bed behind the seated Hikaru, legs hanging off the edge and his head turned to watch their arrival. His hand flopped lazily in greeting. 

“Howdy,” McCree hailed.

As soon as McCree had entered the room, Hikaru hunched in on himself, glowering unhappily. When McCree met his gaze in challenge, his eyes darted away and he hissed out a vile sounding sentence. 

“Did he just call me a fucking foreign devil?” McCree asked the room. 

“Well, you did kill his brother,” Genji replied dismissively. 

“So, if I killed your brother would you call me a fucking foreign devil?”

“No,” Genji bared his teeth in an unfriendly grin. “I would call you a dead man.”

McCree tipped his hat in appreciation of the repartee. “Gotcha.” Then he gave Hanzo a meaningful glance - _hear that, he cares_. It had no effect. Hanzo continued glaring at the two on the bed, as if he wanted to take them both by the neck and squeeze. 

“Our prisoner seems to be doing well for himself here,” Hanzo remarked, his tone like ice. “Despite the lack of information provided.”

Genji frowned but he didn’t speak.

“You were very adamant about keeping him alive. What was it you said? Ah, yes. It makes no sense.” Hanzo’s nostrils flared. This was the clan leader returned, not the man that had sat eating cereal and watching cartoons. “I will tell you what makes no sense. You coddling your friend, a betrayer of this family, and gaining nothing of worth.”

Expression grim, Genji sat up.

Hikaru looked ready to fold in on himself.

“Tell me, Genji. Why I should not slit his throat right now and be done with it?” Hanzo challenged his brother, looking ready to reach for a knife and paint the floor in red. 

“Because,” Genji swallowed hard, his cheeks pale, “because it was one of our own.”

Hanzo jerked back from the unexpected response, blinking rapidly. “What?” The word came out short and sharp. 

“Someone from our clan had been talking to Kobayashi- _san_.”

“Who?” Hanzo demanded.

Genji shook his head slowly. “We do not know. Hikaru-”

“You want me to believe this?”

“Hikaru?” Genji prompted, touching his shoulder gently. Hikaru jumped, moaned softly in terror. “Tell him what you know.”

“N-nothing,” Hikaru stammered. “Not really. He, father, was very upset. But he said it was for the family. That it would be all right. He had been promised.”

“Promised what?” Hanzo hissed, stepping forward, looming.

“I-I do not know.”

“Then how do you know it was someone from our clan?”

“Because... because he said that... that the dragons-” 

Hikaru’s tongue caught on his words, whole body rigid with fear, and Hanzo’s temper frayed. 

“Speak!”

“The dragons are eating each other!” Hikaru shouted quickly, flinching away as if expecting to be struck. “He was tired and scared and he told us to be ready. But we... were not ready.” He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Just a child, McCree noted. He’d been pampered and spoiled by a rich yakuza family, he wasn’t strong enough for this. 

With his lips curled in disgust, Hanzo looked away from Hikaru to Genji. “And you believe this?” He asked. “You believe him based on that flimsy evidence?” When Genji didn’t say anything, Hanzo spat, “you embarrass me.”

“It is worth looking into,” Genji protested. “There is no other reason that makes sense.”

“You are just looking for some excuse to pardon your _friend_.” 

“No, I am not. If he was guilty, if the Toyotami had truly turned against us and tried to kill you of their own accord, I would kill him right now.” Hikaru’s eyes widened at Genji’s proclamation, like a stunned rabbit with nowhere to run. His only protector had abandoned him. “But I believe he has no real part in it.”

“Liar. You are weak. You have always been weak.”

“And yet,” Genji began, smile wry, “you think I am the one that has betrayed you.”

That cast a deadly silence on the room. Hanzo froze mid-breath, every muscle rigid. McCree hadn’t been in a room with this much intensity since the latter days of Reyes and Jack’s falling out. That uncomfortable skin crawling, afraid to move lest the ire of everyone were to fall on you as well. McCree watched, fascinated and wary. 

“I am no fool. I have see the way you look at me. The assumptions you make. Do you know how mad it makes me?” Genji pushed himself to the end of the bed and stood up, the only one able to move in the oppressive room. “That you think I am capable of turning against you. My own _brother_.” It only took a few steps to reach Hanzo, to stand before him, slightly taller, his anger a palpable thing. “After everything we have ever done or said to each other, all these years, and you think I want to betray you. To what? Lead the clan? I hate just living here.”

Hanzo’s lips parted but no sound emerged.

Genji laughed bitterly. “No answer? That is fine.” He stepped past his brother, deliberately knocked their shoulders together. “Kill Hikaru if you really want.” Then he was gone, sweeping out of the room.

Hanzo didn’t move. McCree suspected he was waiting, giving Genji enough time to be far away and out of sight, before he too ran. 

“Hanzo,” McCree tried.

“No,” Hanzo’s voice was soft but powerful. “No, leave me. I need to think.” 

When he finally made his escape, only McCree and Hikaru remained. The younger looked sick, the bleached hair unflattering. “Well, that could have gone better,” McCree mused, “or maybe that was just what they needed.” McCree rolling voice made Hikaru flinch. He approached the door, cast one last look over his shoulder. “Have a good day then.”

Hikaru put his head in his hands and didn’t respond. 

The door clicked softly closed behind him.

\---

McCree wasn’t left to his own devices for long. He had barely started the walk down the long halls back to his room when a servant approached him. “Kotaro-sama wishes to speak with you,” the young woman said in perfect English, her teeth very white, looking more like a secretary than any sort of housekeeper. 

He looked her up and down, from the tips of her perfectly polished shoes to her coiled dark hair. “And?” He questioned, settling into a nonchalant stance, hip cocked. The summoning didn’t come as a surprise. Kotaro was bound to make some sort of move eventually. With both Genji and Hanzo now preoccupied with their thoughts, McCree was ripe for the picking. 

Perfect red lipstick on pretty little lips quirked in genuine amusement. She said nothing.

“Is this a request or an order?” McCree asked. 

“... it is a request you would be foolish to disregard.” 

He had the option to walk away. It wasn’t as if she could force him to go anywhere but McCree couldn’t deny that he was curious. This would be a great chance to face Kotaro one on one, dig a little at who he suspected had a lot to do with the dissonance between Hanzo and Genji. And he liked a good old fashioned showdown. 

“Lead the way, ma’am.” 

He matched her grin for grin.

\---

Kotaro’s personal office was smaller than Hanzo’s, full of organized chaos and oddly endearing touches. He clearly liked succulents, had a neat little row of different types on a table by the window. A cat-shaped paperweight waved merrily from where it was guarding a stack of paperwork. It was strangely disarming, and McCree could only presume he’d chosen the location just to throw him off. Ana had often used the same tactic. She would invite you into her private quarters, with the armchairs and the crochet blankets, offer you tea and you would invariably spill everything she wanted and more. 

“I am glad you could join me,” Kotaro opened with as soon as McCree stepped inside. There was a pen poised in the air, held firm before it finally finished its descent and scribed a signature at the bottom of a page. 

“M’pleasure,” McCree replied, sweeping in and settling himself down in the chair across from Kotaro’s desk without hesitation. Kotaro looked beyond him with a slight nod of his head, and the door clicked closed. McCree resisted the urge to look back. He didn’t sense a threat from behind, the secretary was not in the room; but even so, he fought back a telltale twitch of his head.

After placing his pen down with neat and gentle precision, Kotaro linked his hand together and leaned back. McCree slumped in his chair, legs stretched, indolent and lazy. They studied each other in near silence, the ticking of a clock a reminder of time passing.

Kotaro made the first move, and he did so with a smile, “did you sleep well last night?”

Game on. 

There was no misinterpreting the question, the thinly veiled ‘I know where you slept last night’. McCree could go so far as to presume the cleaning staff had been looking for proof. They wouldn’t find any but still one would always assume their sleepover had been less than innocent. That would have been the case if McCree’s brief fantasy had turned out to be real.

“Mighty fine,” McCree replied without missing a beat, wearing his grin with ease. “Thanks for askin’.”

“Your comfort is of great importance to me.” He sounded genuinely sincere, effortlessly friendly. Then he sighed, and combined with his slight frown, it signified the beginning of more serious matters. “I suppose you must have expected this conversation to happen eventually,” Kotaro said, his tone set perfectly at ‘polite business’. “As an uncle and elder of the Shimada Clan your arrival has been the cause of much interest and concern. You have quickly become rather,” one eyebrow arched, “ _close_ to my nephews. I cannot help but be alarmed. Hanzo in particular is not one to befriend others easily, and yet...”

This was a gentle interrogation, the multi-layered one, disguised as something akin to a father questioning their child’s new suitor. Two could play that game. 

McCree spread his hands out, a gesture of innocence. “I can assure you that my intentions are good. Hanzo and Genji’s health and safety are very important to me. I am here for them wholeheartedly.” It had taken many years before McCree had been properly trained to treat conversations with more finesse. He’d always been a straight shooter. Charming? Yes. But in a direct way. It was the nuance, the double-meanings, the reading between the lines; that had all come later.

“You will forgive me if I my fears are not eased,” Kotaro lamented. 

“Wouldn’t expect it to be that easy,” McCree was just as rueful. 

“It is not lost on me that you said you are here for my nephews and did not mention the Shimada Clan. It is important for you to understand that they _are_ the clan. Our future. But they are also bound by our laws and traditions, as we have all been for centuries.” 

“I’m aware.”

Another silence fell between them; chess pieces moving on an invisible board. Again, Kotaro spoke first, this time with an edge. Finally getting to the point.

“You say you are from the future. Hanzo clearly believes you. Though I worry you are filling his head with unrealistic dreams. You are promising him a great and powerful future. What was it you said? _All of Japan will bow to the Shimada_. Such a lofty ideal. I have no doubt he can achieve that, but I will not stand for falses promises.”

“I can understand why you’d be worried ‘bout that. It does sound a bit over the top,” McCree allowed, smiling, doing his best to look amiable. 

“Then surely you should share more of what you know with myself and the council. If you are truly from the future, there is much information that would be of great help to us. Together we could indeed make Japan bow.”

McCree tapped one finger against the arm of his chair and hummed thoughtfully. “Hanzo is your leader, ain’t he? Head of the clan? I mean, obviously the council is there to assist him but he’s the bigshot.”

Kotaro’s nose flared slightly, as if scenting for the trap. “Yes,” he answered.

“Then you’ve gotta trust him, and you’ll have to trust that I’ve told him everything he needs to know. Which means you should probably be having this conversation with him.” His head tilted, smile still in place, all innocence. “Except you already have, haven't you? And he’s not talking. So you really think I’m the weak link?”

Kotaro clearly wasn’t fooled by the act but he didn’t need to be. “No, I think you are the dangerous liability, Jesse McCree. You are a Blackwatch operative. We’ve done our research. We know who you are. The dragons have marked you as an ally but are you really supporting us? We are killers, Mr. McCree. We deal in death and destruction, we always have. Are you really fighting for our side?” 

“I’ve killed for the clan already. That not proof enough?”

Kotaro chuckled. “Killing yakuza is hardly proof of anything.”

Well, he did have a point. McCree hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over anyone he’d killed so far. 

“Overwatch tore apart the Deadlock Gang,” Kotaro said, clearly changing tact, “and yet they did not finish them off. Many went underground. Are you aware of this? The Shimada are still in contact with the remains. Though they are of little use to us at the moment.”

McCree’s smile wilted. “I am aware. Lotta folks out there I’ve gotta go kill again.”

“How did you lose your arm, Jesse McCree?” Kotaro asked, casual, as if the question wasn’t intended to cut like a knife. Too bad for him McCree’d had a long time to get over that particular trauma. At least when awake. It was only during nightmares that he was forced to relive those vivid memories; woke up drenched in sweat as he recalled the serrated edges of the saw against his skin, the blood and the agony. 

He grinned toothily, holding the arm in question out for inspection. “Wanted a cool mechanical arm so I cut it off myself.” It was an obvious lie, they both knew it. Kotaro smiled back at him, sharing in the joke.

“Your - how should I say it? Current? Ah, perhaps - _younger_ self has yet to act on... such a whim. Would you not wish to contact him? Are there not friends you could save? Disasters that you could avert? Has the future robbed you of whatever decency you earned from being in an organisation that saved the world? Or,” he smile turned thin and nasty, “did you never have that to begin with? Blackwatch _are_ killers, just the same as the Shimada and Deadlock.”

“Killers? Wouldn’t go that far,” was all McCree said, eyes trained on that Kotaro’s face.

“Would you not? Blackwatch kill and torture for their so called peace and justice. The Shimada kill and torture for family and profit. In the end, we are both the same.”

McCree’s burst of laughter shocked unwanted emotion onto Kotaro’s face, the other man pulling back with widened eyes. “You think that’s gonna work?” He asked, chest still rumbling with amusement. “I know what they are. I know what I did. I ain’t gonna defend them. We did what we had to do, same as you do. And I’m here to do what I have to do now.”

“I could help you contact them. I could help send you back. Whatever good you think you are doing here, I can tell you that you are wrong.”

It made sense Kotaro wanted to get rid of him any way that he could, and the offer was a decent one. Appeal to his old loyalties, give him a chance to rejoin Blackwatch as an older and more experienced man with the promise of no backlash from the Shimada Clan. In reality, he’d been here too long and McCree doubted he’d be allowed to go scot-free when he had clan secrets at his disposal. Hanzo’s love of Pokemon would be key information that would help Overwatch finally take down the troublesome yakuza. 

“I’ll leave that for Hanzo to decide.” McCree gave a lazy insincere smile. “So thanks but no thanks.”

\---

_Thunk._

The sound greeted McCree as he stepped outside, pulled his focus down the raised wooden pathway. He followed it, dragging the crisp air into his lungs. The sun was doing a valiant job, sparkling merrily in a cloudless sky, and still the rays could do more than take the edge off. Despite it being on the verge of spring, winter had yet to unclench its grip. It was a relief after the stifling heated halls and his conversation with Kotaro. 

They’d gotten no further, and McCree had left the room without having gained anything useful. He’d let Kotaro steer the conversation but he’d never tried to take the wheel himself, had never voiced any questions or fired any shots because he simply didn’t know enough. Even with his suspicions, and now they were stronger than ever, he’d been unable to dig because he didn’t have any more information to start with other than ‘clearly smart and rather dubious uncle who may or may not be trying to get Hanzo killed’.

Throwing out wild accusations or insinuations wasn’t going to help anyone.

So he sought out Hanzo, following the directions of four different staff members until he reached the right place.

_Thunk._

The open side of the walkway, with its dark wood railing, looked down on a small training area with a view of the town. Hanzo was there, stance set and arrow readied on his bow. He had peeled away his kimono top, let the sleeves hang lazily beside the dark blue of his hakama pants. As his arm pulled back, the muscles in his back and shoulder were clearly defined. Those shoulders were broad but had yet to wear the bulk that Hanzo would achieve in later years.

It was still impressive and McCree stopped to admire the view, slouched with his forearms on the railing.

_Thunk._

The arrow hit the target dead centre, alongside its fellows.

Hanzo’s head turned, just ever so slightly, but enough that McCree knew his presence had been noted.

“Nice shot,” he felt obliged to call down. 

Hanzo pulled another arrow from the quiver by his feet and continued to train without a word in response. McCree watched quietly for a few minutes, lighting and puffing on a cigar to soothe the tightness in his chest. 

Only when Hanzo had finished with his arrows and was collecting them from the target did McCree peel himself away from the railing and finish the walk to the stairs. They creaked under his weight as he descended. Hanzo looked up to watch him amble his way across the grass.

“Pretty handy with that bow,” he complimented. 

Hanzo took in a breath, his chest rose and fell with it. McCree tried not to make his glance down too obvious. He shifted his smouldering cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. 

“I wanted to be alone,” Hanzo said flatly.

“Yeah, well,” McCree scratched at his jaw and looked away from that unhappy gaze, “we don’t always get what we want.”

“Not in my experience.”

His gaze flicked back to Hanzo, to the dark circles under the eyes and downturned mouth. Nothing unusual. Except something was, he seemed deflated somehow, or adrift. McCree could feel him, the uncertainty quivering at his edges like an aura. The reason why was obvious and he couldn’t help but try to drag it out into the open. 

“Wanna talk?” McCree asked.

“No.”

He arched his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“I know what you want to say,” Hanzo told him, “and the answer is still no.”

“Hnnn,” McCree rolled that sound out, his tongue playing with the bitter tip of the cigar. Hanzo watched him, shoulders tightening, waiting for more. His arms were held limply at his sides but one hand was holding an arrow, twisting, smacking the shaft against his thigh in repetitive motion.

“Awright then,” McCree finally drawled. “We won’t talk ‘bout how it’s high time you tell Genji everything and get over yourself.” Hanzo draw in a quick breath, nostrils flaring with outrage. “And pushing him away because you’re feeling guilty over something you ain’t done yet is sure as hell not helping.”

“I am not feeling guilty,” Hanzo snapped. He seemed on the verge of more but his words wouldn’t seem to emerge as anything more than a frustrated grunt.

“Yeah, sure, buddy. So you’re not trying to twist Genji into the bad guy so you feel better about about the whole fratricide thing? Makes it easier if he was out to get you already, right? Keeping telling yourself that.” He took the cigar from his mouth, smoking curling from the corners of his lips, and smiled. 

“I am _not_ \- I, _damn you_!”

McCree should have learnt by now not to press buttons when someone was holding something lethal in their hands but it was a habit he couldn’t seem to break, and suddenly there was the pointy end of an arrow jammed up under his chin. It hadn’t broken the skin but when he gulped, he knew it was dangerously close.

He grinned anyway.

Hanzo stood on his tiptoes, face to face, a snarl marring his features.

McCree lifted both hands up in surrender, only the two fingers holding his cigar curled. It had only been a shot in the dark but his aim always had been good. In the back of his own mind he recognized that frustration had driven his words; desperate to pick and prod for a reaction that wasn’t placid smiling. His talk with Kotaro had left him feeling unsatisfied and Hanzo was an easy target. He realized this fact and still felt no regret.

“How _dare_ you talk to me that way!” Hanzo hissed. “I _will_ kill you. And if I have to kill Genji as well, _so be it_.” The wild darkness in his eyes was an ugly look. McCree had seen it before; the night he’d left Overwatch for good. Gabriel had worn it, had seethed with it, too consumed to care that McCree was walking out the door. That was a reminder he didn’t need. It sent a chill down the back of his spine.

“You have come here, to my home, and you think that you know me? The dragons may have sent you but you are _nothing_. I am the first son of Shimada Sojiro, leader of my clan, and I will build my empire with or without my brother and certainly without _you_.” Spit landed on McCree’s cheek but he neither flinched back or blinked away from the intensity Hanzo was unleashing. “I am not a child. I do not need you Jesse McCree. I do not need your help. My future is my own.”

The air crackled with energy and knowing that the dragons hadn’t hurt him last time was only slightly reassuring. Hanzo had been this close to breaking and McCree hadn’t even noticed. Even so, he figured the explosion would have occurred eventually, with or without McCree’s foolish tongue to speed it along. He was glad they were alone now, where he could handle the outburst as best he could without interference. 

McCree waited for more but Hanzo was merely panting now, harsh little angry breaths. 

“You done?” He asked.

Hanzo’s lips curled back into another snarl, defiant in the face of McCree’s deadpan response.

With slow, obvious movements, McCree brought his mechanical hand across to take hold of the arrow shaft just beneath Hanzo’s grip. Hanzo didn’t stop him and they stood together, both gripping tight, staring each other down. 

“No use threatenin’ me, honey. If you wanna kill me, you better do it right now or make peace with me being a thorn in your side for a little while longer.” His own gaze was like steel, unflinchingly daring Hanzo to finish the act and drive the arrow upwards. For a mere fraction of a second, McCree felt the arrow move slightly, the tip digging uncomfortably deep and Hanzo’s eyes seemed like dark pools meant for drowning in - and then he let go, his anger leaving him in a rush, shoulder slumping and head tipping forward.

McCree did the same and the arrow fell, hit the ground and tipped over sideways with barely a sound. He allowed himself a soft sigh of relief, tensed muscles releasing. “Phew, scared me for a second there, Han.” 

Hanzo stared at his lopsided grin with frowning incomprehension, as if he couldn’t believe McCree could be so flippant. 

“You’re right though. You’re not a child. Somewhere in there,” he pushed a metal finger forward, tapped gently against Hanzo’s bare chest, “is a good man. A man who became so full of regret his only path to redemption was dying with his brother in his arms; a bitter alcoholic who still spoke of creating an empire; a man who couldn’t control his tongue and called his brother worthless only to add to his endless list of regrets. Is that the man you wanna be? Because I didn’t like him much.”

He flicked the cigar away, not caring where it landed, only that he needed his flesh hand to cup Hanzo’s cheek. He didn’t expect the touch to be rejected and it wasn’t, though Hanzo seemed incapable of doing anything but staring, eyes too dark and too wide, full of an emotion he couldn’t read. Maybe there were too many at once. The truth was painful when you were trying to blind yourself with your own lies. 

“After everything Genji goes through, even when you refused to acknowledge him as your brother, he still didn’t kill you. He found peace. He forgave you. He invited you into his life again and all he wanted was to find you that redemption you longed for. You both had to die for it, but now I’m here and I’m not seeing that happen again.” His thumb stroked Hanzo’s cheek, and Hanzo’s eyelids fluttered downwards.

“Don't,” McCree begged, “make me see that happen again.” 

Hanzo’s eyes closed completely and his head turned slightly into McCree’s touch. A sigh trembled over his palm. On cue an invisible hand reached into McCree’s chest and gripped his heart, squeezed it tight and he knew he was in trouble. 

“Very well,” Hanzo allowed, soft and sad. “We will talk to Genji.”

“There we go, darlin’.”

At the gentle praise, Hanzo’s eyes flickered open and now McCree could read them; the relief from letting go, of pushing through the bitterness and anger and finding something better on the other side. His thumb moved again, a soothing brush, the contact burning through his skin and down his arm to make his heart thud in his throat.

“Will you trust me,” Hanzo asked, “to make the right choices?”

“‘Course.”

“Thank you.”

They were standing so close, leaning into each other, as intimate as lovers. The rush of emotions had left an absence that needed to be filled, that _wanted_ to be filled and McCree teetered on the edge of doing just that. “I think this is the part where we kiss,” he joked instead, his voice cracking slightly. 

Instead of the derision he had expected, Hanzo smiled. “Not this time,” he said. His head turned further into McCree’s palm, lips barely brushing the skin, and then he stepped away. The loss of contact hurt somehow, his fingers still tingling from the last touch on Hanzo’s face. _Not this time._ The promise manifested red hot in his gut.

Hanzo stooped to pick the fallen arrow and then walked away to retrieve his bow, pulling up his kimono sleeves as he went. 

“You know,” McCree said as Hanzo packed up his gear. “I actually wanted to talk you about your uncle.”

“Oh?” 

“He called me in for a little chat.” 

Hanzo’s movements seized for half a second before he continued. “What did he want?”

“Wanted more information about the future and when I obviously wasn’t gonna spill the beans, he offered to send me back to Overwatch.” McCree watched intently for further reaction, patiently waiting for a chance to slide in the questions he really wanted answers to.

“I see.” The little twitch in his jaw was definitely displeasure. 

“He’s your father's brother, right?” 

“Yes,” Hanzo answered, all his arrows neatly packed and the quiver on his shoulder. 

“He got a dragon too?” 

“No.”

“Why not?”

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed. “The dragons will not always serve. Not even a direct descendant.”

“Interesting,” McCree tried to sound casual as he leaned down to pick up his cigar. “And if you die, and then Genji dies or runs off - he’s next in line, right?”

Hanzo made an exasperated sound. “Is this necessary? I already know you suspect his motives.” He tutted, approaching again. There was no intimacy in their closeness now. “My uncle is trying to undermine my power and has more support with the elders than I do. I am aware of this. He has spies in my personal staff. I am aware of this also. But I do not believe my uncle is responsible for Toyotami Kobayashi.”

“Why the hell not?”

“My uncle would hardly use such an unreliable method. You said you saved my life that day but you were underestimating me. You always underestimate me.” McCree opened his mouth to speak but Hanzo’s smile was cutthroat. “I am not someone for you to babysit. You might be older than me but that does not make me weak. I am a very well-trained killer. Do not forget that.” Three steps walked brought him parallel to McCree’s shoulder. “We will not speak of my uncle again like this, not unless I initiate it. Understood?”

“Sure thing, sugar,” McCree agreed after a long pause where he considered the benefits of arguing. There weren't any. 

“Good. Come now. It is lunch time.”

Hanzo walked away, took the steps to the walkway two at a time, and McCree trailed along behind.


	8. conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo howdy! so i wrote most of this and then sat on it and then walked around for a while and then wrote something else and now here's the next chapter, yay! thank you to Abel for beta reading and giving me ridiculous amounts of encouragement, and thanks to all of you for being here reading this! :)

Every noise was too loud, even the rustle of fabric and low murmur of voices was an irritant that added to the pressure pounding in the back of his head. McCree turned his face into the pillow and lifted his arm to press his shoulder into his ear. It was an awkward position but it blocked out the worst of the sound, leaving him with only the echo of his own blood. 

Fingers touched his arm, at first featherlight and then gently but insistently trying to pull his arm away. McCree allowed it, no strength to put up a fight, but didn’t let his assailant get away unscathed, muttering a grumpy, “fuck off, Hanzo.”

Hanzo paid him no mind, clucking his tongue and pressing two blessedly cool fingers to his temple. He rubbed, his weight settling beside McCree as he continued his gentle ministrations. 

The younger man didn’t deserve his ire but McCree was long past caring. This particular migraine had been creeping up all morning, an insidious presence. At first he had thought it was due to boredom and more whisky than necessary, shots thrown back to make the day less of a chore. Hanzo had returned to the business of running a ninja clan and insisted that McCree accompany him to every single meeting, even if that meant just sitting or standing idly by with too many thoughts rattling around his skull.

Blackwatch, Toyotami, traitor... or Hanzo’s dark hair brushing against his neck. The scent of pine and soap when he deliberately leaned over or shifted just to catch a whiff; his strong fingers wrapped around his pen so delicately.

He’d almost laughed as he had clamped his hand to his nose, blood gushing out as if in parody of a Japanese cartoon. Except the pain had been near unbearable by then and he’d excused himself and stumbled away, hoping for some peace and quiet to spend the miserable rest of his day. 

Instead Hanzo had followed him, hovering like an attentive mother hen as he ordered the staff here and there. McCree would have been pleased by the attention if he hadn’t been in so much pain.

At least he had a nice bed to sink into; a decent proper mattress made a world of good. Only a day after their conversation on the archery range, Hanzo had moved him into a bigger room with better amenities. ‘You are closer to my room here,’ he had said, expressionless in tone and face. McCree had spent that first night in his new digs wondering if that had been an invitation. The memory of Hanzo’s face against his palm was a vivid memory. Should he pay him a visit now? He was only two doors down. But he had stayed put and christened the bed, sheets pushed down to his knees as painted his abdomen in frustration.

“The doctor is coming,” Hanzo told him, McCree’s face scrunching up as the voice entered his skull like the piercing screech of a harpy. “He will give you pain relief. “

McCree grunted a sound that was meant to be a thank you.

The most alarming part of this was that the pattern had been broken. The two previous times he had been struck down by the pain in his head, McCree had recently killed someone and his initial assessment had been that surely it was connected. An easy enough thing to avoid and it wouldn’t the first time he’d paid for taking a life in a physical way. Except this time had hadn’t so much as swatted a fly. 

And there had been nothing from Winston but a brief message relayed through Hanzo’s contact: _No information yet, sorry._

Hanzo’s fingers spread out, all five sliding through his hair, kneading gently at McCree’s scalp. He wished he could enjoy the touch more but his stomach was in his throat and his focus was on keeping it down. Even so he was grateful, longing to reach out and bury his face in Hanzo’s lap. Unfortunately moving was impossible, so he took what pleasure he could in the simple comfort.

They stayed that way until the doctor joined them, a brief conversation followed by the prick of a needle and he welcomed the darkness that followed. 

\---

“You are not eating,” Hanzo pointed out.

McCree looked up from his half finished bowl of watery rice, scattered through with green flecks of spring onion and seaweed. He scooped up another spoonful and valiantly took a bite, though there wasn’t much to bite at. The texture was not what he would call pleasant and he swallowed quickly. 

Hanzo was watching him from across the table, frowning. “ _Okayu_ is good for you when you are sick.”

“I ain’t sick,” McCree groused, picking more up in his spoon and then letting it dribble out back into the bowl. He felt like a picky child but he longed for something more meaty. A big fat steak covered in buttery mushroom sauce and a large helping of crunchy fries. 

“You are unwell,” Hanzo corrected himself, though obviously wasn’t pleased to have to do so.

“I’m feelin’ much better, thanks.” It was true enough. Other than the fog clouding his mind, a full day of sleeping had cleared away the worst of the pain. Even so the aftereffects didn’t make him pleasant company to be around and he was still too fuzzy to care. “Don’t need you coddlin’ me.”

“I am not coddling,” Hanzo bristled.

McCree opened his mouth to say something else biting and then wisely shut it again, focusing instead on chasing the greenery around the white sludge. He wasn’t much of a fan of normal porridge either and this was worse.

Their silence was a heavy one, laced with tension. He could almost feel Hanzo’s stare, watching in rising anger as the spoon went around and around and -

“Stop playing with it,” Hanzo snapped. “You do not have to eat it.” His hand shot out across the table, snagging the edge of the bowl.

“Hey!” McCree tried to fight him off but he was too unprepared. Hanzo dragged the bowl away in a hurry, nearly tipping it over. “I’m gonna eat it! Give it back!” His protests were ignored as Hanzo deliberately began stacking the bowls and smaller side dishes, each angry clash of plates splattering rice porridge on the table. “Come on now!”

The wait-staff rushed forward to help but Hanzo paid them no heed, not until he’d collected every single dish and cup on the table and turned them into a messy tower. Only then did he stand up, cheeks blotched red with anger. “Dinner is finished.”

He swept out of the room, head high and nose in the air. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” McCree hissed under his breath as he rose to follow, jogging out the door and down the hall to catch up to Hanzo’s quick steps. “Hey, hey, hey!”

Hanzo continued to ignore him until McCree wrapped a hand around his bicep and swung him around to face him. Hanzo moved with into the pull, pivoting neatly on his instep in order to smack McCree firmly in the chest with his palm. It shocked the air right out McCree’s lungs and he doubled over with a gasp, immediately wise to his own folly. Ninja master, of course. Should have known better. He would have laughed, if he’d been capable. 

At least Hanzo seemed suitably contrite, his hands quickly coming to rest on McCree’s shoulders as he caught his breath. He stayed bent over, just to feel Hanzo’s hand move along his back in soothing motions. It was, he admitted to himself, slightly pathetic. 

“What the hell was that?” McCree asked eventually, when he’d let the moment drag on long enough. His lower back aching more from leaning over with his hands on his knees more than where he had just been struck. 

Regrettably, Hanzo immediately drew away as soon as Jesse spoke. McCree straightened up, rolling his shoulders back and taking in a deep breath to feel the twinge in his chest where he had been struck. He pressed his mechanical hand there, caught Hanzo’s rueful gaze glance towards the action.

“I... apologise.” Hanzi looked aside as he said the words, crossing his arms over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits.

“Naw, sugar. I’m the one who's sorry. You’re just trying your best. I appreciate it, I do.” The urge to reach out was making his fingers twitch, and he gave in. He tipped Hanzo’s face back towards him with the press of two fingers to that strong jaw. “M’just a bit frustrated and a little sore.”

“I understand.”

“You shouldn’t hit an old man though,” McCree said, his near breathless chuckle explained away by the direct hit to his chest and not the reaction of a smitten man. His fingers curled, knuckles pressed gently into the side of Hanzo’s chin. The touch was allowed without comment from the other man.

Hanzo arched one imperious eyebrow, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You are not old,” he said with great certainty.

“Yeah?” McCree murmured, chest too tight. He watched mesmerized as Hanzo reached up to take his hand. Strong fingers curling around his own, squeezing gently as he directed it away from his face. Hanzo let McCree’s hand go between them and he almost wasn't sure what to do, had to remind himself to pull his hand back to his side lest he try to breach the gap once more. 

“But you _do_ need more rest.” That mother hen tone again, the gentle cluck of his tongue.

“Right,” McCree agreed, settling back into reality with a sudden bump and the horrifying realisation that his desire was sinking far deeper, turning into a word he dare not entertain even in his own mind. He’d surely given up on the notion a long time ago. He couldn’t possibly... 

McCree stepped back, forced himself away and gave that easy grin that had carried him through life. The space between them suddenly unbreachable and far more bearable, even if it ached. “I’ll go do that, sugar.”

\---

The days marched by, bleeding into one another until McCree could barely distinguish one from the next. The time was primarily spent at Hanzo’s side; the longing in his chest a hungry beast that that grew stronger every time he was offered the smallest hint of a smile. It was near maddening, and it wasn’t as if the chance to make a move was unavailable. They were alone together most of the time, shared nearly every meal, and on one memorable occasion, had bathed together at a fancy Shimada run bathhouse.

He saw nothing of Genji, and when he asked, Hanzo always turned away with a frown. ‘He is fine,’ Hanzo would tell him. Despite the promise to speak to his brother, Hanzo continued to avoid the issue and Genji’s absence was unsettling. Frustration made McCree impatient and his tongue sharp, a state only eased by alcohol, which Hanzo was still reluctantly supplying him with. 

Day by day, McCree was growing more intimately connected to the business of running a yakuza clan. At first he’d tried not to pay too much attention to the goings on but the only other option was staring at the wall, and it wasn’t as if this was his first time listening to dodgy dealings and assassination contracts. He’d always been good with numbers and Hanzo had been surprised the first time he’d jumped in, correcting an amount and pointing out that a Mr. Yamazuki was clearly holding on to more than he should.

Kotaro had not made any further one on one contact, smiling and talking to him politely only when required. McCree didn’t have any complaints. He still hadn’t uncovered anything to prove Kotaro’s involvement in the Toyotami incident and Hanzo wasn’t giving him the space to investigate. Not that he would have known where to start. Other than trying to shake down Hikaru for more information, and he was fairly certain that was a dead end anyway.  
To McCree’s surprise, despite Kotaro keeping his distance, the rest of the council suddenly had no reservations about his continued presence. Every day there was a new servant at his door, inviting him to tea with one or more of the elders. Hanzo waved them all away impatiently.

“They think they can court my favour through you,” Hanzo explained dismissively as they stood together on a warm spring morning, outside to enjoy the weather and McCree a fresh cigar. “I presume they think you have some influence with me.” 

“Well,” McCree had drawled cheekily, “they ain’t wrong.” 

“Try not to think too highly of yourself.” 

McCree had laughed and blown smoke in his face.

“Uncouth,” Hanzo had called him, his face framed beautifully by the swirling cloud.

But McCree was not a man used to inaction. The times when he hadn’t been on the run and forced to keep one step ahead of the law and other bounty hunters, there had been Blackwatch. Even on stakeouts when patience was a necessity, there was always a purpose. Now there was only the passing days, waiting for information, led around by a young master, a storm building just like his migraines; slow and steady.

The storm finally broke one late afternoon, after yet another meeting that had left McCree’s patience whisper thin. Some nonsense about opening trade talks with Mexico. They wanted guns; the Shimada wanted some new drug that was taking over the market. McCree just wanted to sort out the mess he’d been thrown into.

“When are we talkin’ to Genji?” McCree asked as soon as the door had closed.

Hanzo’s shoulders instantly stiffened defensively. “Not now.” His tone meant to be calm but there was an edge of warning that McCree was more than ready to ignore. He stood from his chair with finality in the way he gathered his documents and McCree leaned in, hand coming firmly down on the papers before Hanzo could lift them away. They flattened beneath his palm and Hanzo froze.

“McCree,” he said; definitely a warning this time.

‘Didn't take you for a coward.” McCree wasn’t going to back down and his accusation rolled out in a low drawl. 

Both men shifted to face each other, straightening up with squared shoulders; they were standing close with McCree using his height to his advantage and looking down his nose at Hanzo. Of course, the shorter man wasn’t at all cowed and McCree hadn’t expected him to be. Despite having to tilt his head up to meet McCree’s gaze, he still looked imperious. 

“Do not test my patience,” Hanzo advised quietly. 

“Funny, ‘cause you’ve sure as hell been testing mine.”

“It is my choice when we have this discussion.”

“No, it’s _ours_ ,” McCree told him. “And you promised.”

“I agreed to speak to him, I did not say when,” Hanzo pointed out flatly. 

“When would you like to do it then? A month, a year?” He was angry but rather than let loose, McCree put a leash on his emotions. His voice stayed level, knowing Hanzo would respond to shouting about as well as anyone else would. “It ain’t a matter of when you’re ready, it’s just gotta get done.” He stressed the last two words, put as much emphasis as he could, his gaze open and beseeching. 

Hanzo’s lips flattened unhappily, head turning to the side. McCree could almost see the little cogs in his brain ticking, the thoughts straightening out. He fought back his own impatience, the tight knot of it in his chest. He grit his teeth and waited, knowing, hoping, that Hanzo would get there on his own in the end.

“If you want to speak to him so much,” Hanzo finally said, sounding purposefully disdainful, “you do it.”

Disgruntled, McCree settled back on his heels. It gave them both space to breathe without taking a step away. “Seriously?” 

“I think it would be... better... if I was not... present,” Hanzo said haltingly. McCree could see the trepidation in his eyes when they flipped back towards him briefly. It was admission of weakness and not one that Hanzo wanted to make.

“Well,” McCree rubbed the side of his jaw and shook his head in amazement, “I’ll be damned. You’re really gonna pass the buck?”

Hanzo turned away completely, gathered his liberated documents and put them into the top desk drawer. The lock clicked. Despite technology making paper nearly obsolete, Hanzo’s only response to McCree’s enquiry had been, ‘paper can’t be hacked’. 

“I do not know that expression but I assume you are suggesting that I am passing the problem to you, and I am.” He at least looked chagrined by the admission, refusing to look at McCree and instead focused on the top of the desk. “You called me a coward,” he throat bobbed as he swallowed, “and perhaps I am.”

McCree’s anger and frustration bled away, deflated him instantly and left only exhaustion, pity and affection in its place. He scratched the top of his head and sighed. “What do you think he’s gonna do, sweetheart? He forgave you for it once, and this time it ain’t even happened yet. What’s the worst he could do?”

Hanzo didn’t answer; he was visibly rebuilding his walls, replacing the fear on his face with a frown. He faced McCree again. “Will you do this for me or not?” He challenged. 

“We’re not even gonna talk about it?” McCree questioned. This felt like a step back; one he didn’t want to be taking. Reaching out for Hanzo now seemed impossible. There had been a brief window, when Hanzo’s shoulders had been hunched and his expression pained but now there was only the clan leader, impatiently waiting for the answer he wanted.

“Yeah,” McCree agreed, giving in. “I’ll do it.”

\---

Breakfast the next morning was quiet and strained, with Hanzo refusing to respond to any of McCree’s small talk with anything more than noncommittal grunts.The change in demeanour was hurtful and unnecessary, the silent treatment the tactic of a man who knew he was wrong but refused to amend his decision.

Rather than start an argument, McCree gave up trying to break through Hanzo’s hostility directly but continued to talk, loudly and mostly to himself, about inconsequential things; his clothes, the weather, the itchy spot on his foot and his favourite breed of dog. He spoke at length about Dachshunds, complimenting their cute little legs and big eyes, retold the story of a video he had seen of one trying to climb onto a couch for ten minutes.

Hanzo remained stiff-jawed and irritable, though there were numerous times when it looked as though he was about to speak, either to put in his own point, or, more likely, tell him to shut up. McCree was starting to enjoy his own prattle when Hanzo finally stood, his food hardly touched and his hand smoothing nervously down his front.

“Wait here,” he said, then stalked out of the room.

McCree pushed his bowl away for the servants to clear and wasn’t at all surprised when the door opened fifteen minutes later, with Genji there, his hair a tousled mess. He had the sharp gaze of a man expecting to be angry and assessing the situation presented with an air of resignation. Genji stepped into the room, his gaze on the space Hanzo had been. He didn’t sit, waited instead for McCree to rise to his feet and greet him. 

“Hey,” McCree said.

Genji only arched an eyebrow.

“Well then,” McCree began, “looks like it’s ‘bout time we had a chat.”

Genji pushed his hair away from his forehead, his face startlingly young, pale and untouched by makeup. “I guess,” he said, fingers dragging down the side of his face and down his neck, where he scratched idly, leaving faint pink marks in his skin. 

Judging by the way Genji kept glancing at the empty cushion by the table, he must have been expecting Hanzo to be there. Where had Genji been all this time? What had Hanzo told him beforehand? Had they been in contact? The lack of information was frustrating and McCree couldn’t wait to give Hanzo a piece of his mind later. 

“You wanna sit down?” 

Genji’s hand seized its motion and dropped, arms loose by his sides. “We are going out,” he declared.

“‘Scuse me?”

“Out. Come on. I am not talking here.” Genji was already heading for the door. “Follow me.” 

\---

The arcade was intensely loud and hot. How Genji expected to have a conversation here, McCree had no clue and he hadn’t exactly been chatty on the walk down to the town. Instead he’d led the way with long strides and was now already sitting himself down at one of the arcade machines, an old school fighting game called _Fighter of the Storm_. There were only two other patrons and McCree figured it was because this particular arcade seemed to be entirely devoted to the past. The two others they had passed by promised futuristic virtual reality and new worlds to explore, away from the confines of the body. Here there was only yourself and the joysticks.

McCree eased himself down in front of the machine next to Genji’s, a little girl skipping happily along under the banner of _Vivi’s Adventure_. Genji wordlessly slid a plastic card over to him. “There is a sensor,” he explained. “It will automatically go onto my account.”

“Was near expecting some old coins,” McCree said as he took the offered keycard. But instead of swiping he leaned over and watched Genji’s screen instead, in time to witness the effortless and complete destruction of the AI. Genji’s expression was nonchalant as the small monster man he had chosen literally tore the head off his enemy and dribbled the blood into his mouth.

“Neat,” he said.”You’re, uh, pretty dang good at that.”

“Mmm,” Genji agreed.

The next fight had the same outcome -- and the next and the next, until the words _FINAL BOSS_ rose big and red on the screen. A small cutscene played out, some demon rising from the earth, and as the demon roared out his challenge, Genji turned his head slightly and asked, “well?”

McCree blinked, gaze flicking away from the screen. “Well, what?”

“Are you not going to talk?”

“Here?” McCree glanced around, the casualness, the heat rising as sweat on the back of his neck. Something nearby suddenly started beeping and flashing, trying to attract the visitors that weren't there. 

“Yes.” His smile was grim and unsettling. “Now, finally tell me of my brother’s mistakes.”

This was not ideal but McCree had been sent to do Hanzo’s dirty work and this was just going to have to do. Like he had with Hanzo, he didn’t try to sugarcoat the truth. “He tried to kill you.”

The battle had started, Genji’s fingers moving automatically in response. For the first time since they’d started, his character took a hit. He immediately recovered, throwing the demon boss to the opposite side of the screen but his health bar had decreased. Genji’s cheek twitched.

“Tried?” He asked, his false calm barely masking the emotions roiling beneath.

“Yeah, something about putting you back into line, his duty, your clan, all that usual bullshit that’s constantly in his goddamn head.” McCree sighed. “Anyway, he thinks he’s gone and killed you but Overwatch swoops in and-” He paused briefly, considering the implications. Genji had been close to death, sliced near in two, which meant they’d gotten to him quickly - but how?

Genji made an impatient sound.

McCree returned to his morbid tale. “You get saved but we can’t save,” he gave Genji an apologetic glance up and down, “all of you. So you get rebuilt. Part man; part machine. We’re pretty good buds, eventually.”

The battle ended with one last brutal punch.

_YOU WIN._

Genji’s hand stilled on the arcade console, fingers still in place. “I want to accuse you of lying,” he said.

“Yeah,” McCree commiserated, wishing he had a cigar, “me too.” 

“Hanzo tries to kill me. My brother.”

“To be fair,” McCree felt the need to add, rising to Hanzo’s defence, “the guilt eats him up alive for the next twelve years or so. Spends a whole lot of time searching for redemption. And you forgive him.”

“Do I?” Genji’s mouth quirked in a pale imitation of a smile.

“Because you’re a good man, you forgive him and you try to help him forgive himself. Never does quite work, though. In my time, you both died and that’s why I’m here. To fix this big ol’ mess before it happens.”

“Is it even possible to change the future?”

“I guess so. I’m changin’ it just by being here, ain’t I?” 

Genji laughed, softly and without mirth. “I suppose you are correct.” He slumped, hands falling to his lap. There was a countdown on the screen. 

_PLAY AGAIN?_

It was already on _3..._

_2..._

_1..._

Neither of them moved.

_GAME OVER._

“What do I do now?

“Up to you,” McCree tentatively reached out, placing a comforting hand on Genji’s shoulder. It wasn’t shrugged away, so he left it there. His palm hot and sweaty. “You can leave, if you want. Or you can stay, forgive him now and rebuild a relationship with your brother.”

“He won’t even talk to me,” Genji lamented.

“He’s just scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Himself.”

Genji turned his head to look at him properly, his gaze searching, thoughtful. “You like him.” It wasn’t a question, his expression softening with the gentle statement. There wasn’t any use in denying it or pretending there wasn’t deeper meaning behind what Genji was saying.

“Yeah,” McCree admitted.

“Will you take care of him if I leave?”

“‘Course, but I could use your help. You’ve known him longer. You’re his brother.”

“And yet you’re the one he clearly trusts. He makes you follow him around like a puppy dog.” Now Genji’s smile was wry.

McCree huffed a laugh and squeezed Genji’s shoulder. “Look, far as I’m concerned the only way we’re gonna really make this right is if you guys sort your problems out and get through this together. Gotta clear the air and start over. You didn’t abandon him then, I don’t think you’re gonna do it now.” 

“And if he still tries to kill me?” Genji asked, whole body tensing.

“I’ll kill him.” Genji’s lips parted in surprise at McCree's announcement, brow furrowing. “Already had this conversation and he knows it.”

“Then I would have to kill you,” Genji murmured quietly, barely heard above the din of the arcade. He was serious, his head dipped and gaze unflinching. The instinct to avenge and protect his brother unfaltering. 

“Guess so.”

Genji shifted, finally shrugging McCree’s hand away. “Well,” he said as he stood, stretching his arms over his head. “I might just stick around then.”

\----

All things considered, McCree was feeling positive about his chat with Genji. The younger Shimada had insisted they spend some time in the town after their conversation and McCree had been grateful just to leave the confines of the arcade. Hanamura was a beautiful city and Genji was keen to show off the hidden gems, buying different foods for him to try and introducing him to a side of Japan he hadn’t been able to enjoy since he’d arrived.

Occasionally Genji tried to pull some detail from the future out of him and McCree either deflected it and gave over some harmless tidbit. Every now and then he stopped and looked pensive, gazing back at the castle on the hill, visible from nearly every street of Hanamura until the taller buildings blocked the way, 

They discussed this future too; how best to approach Hanzo, how to bring them together. If McCree should be there or not. He was almost hesitant to suggest they talk alone, without him there to mediate but he couldn’t help but be tired with the whole situation. Babysitting squabbling brothers was not his ideal good time and he longed to just leave them to their own devices for once, while he drank himself into a stupor.

Parting amiably at the gate, Genji ambled off, promising to visit soon. McCree in turn promised to pave the way for his eventual chat with Hanzo before he also made his way back to his room, the hallways now familiar. It wasn’t hard to start thinking about this place as home. 

Hanzo was waiting for him; he stopped pacing the moment McCree opened the door to the room and he only just held back a laugh. The image caught in his mind, of Hanzo learning he had arrived home and running here, just to wait, too full of anxious energy to even pretend he was calm.

“How did it go?” Hanzo asked immediately.

McCree didn’t answer the question, instead holding up the pretty box he’d carried with him. “Got you somethin’.” He offered the pink and purple box with it’s pretty ribbon as Hanzo frowned with mouth slightly parted in a small ‘o’. 

Hanzo took the box, gaze flicking between it and McCree’s pleased grin.

“Mochi,” McCree explained, tapping the box with one finger where the clear top showed the plump rice cakes nestled within. “Genji said you like ‘em. There’s few flavours. Green tea, strawberry, mango and black sesames.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo murmured, pulling the box closer, almost cradling it against his chest, his fingers locked around the corners.

Then his face tilted up and he uttered a soft, “please tell me”.

McCree’s heart flipped itself over and tried to drop down into his gut at the gentle plea to stop avoiding the question and just tell Hanzo what he was so desperate to hear. McCree was sorry he’d tried to hold back, using the gift as an easy excuse to put himself in a more powerful position. Old habits, even with friends. You always made sure to have the upperhand in any conversation.

Or maybe he'd wanted to punish Hanzo for making him do this alone. It was petty but he knew himself well enough not to deny it his own malicious streak.

But now his anger was long gone and regret was in its place.

“Sorry sweetheart,” McCree started with and Hanzo immediately went stiff, expecting the worst. Seeing the reaction, McCree had to hurry along before he got the wrong impression. “It went real well. Your brother’s a good guy. He’s sad, of course. But he wants to speak to you later.” He paused for a moment, before adding a hesitant, “you want me there for that?”

Hanzo pursed his lips as he considered but ultimately shook his head. “No. Thank you but no. I can... handle it from here.” His relief was palpable, his smile warm enough to set McCree’s heart galloping again like some lovesick teenager. “Thank you, Jesse.”

“You’re welcome, darlin’.”

Hanzo frowned. “I put you in a difficult situation.” He looked down at the gift, the words clearly struggling past his pride. “I have put you in many a difficult situations. Even though I know you are here for a reason, I am grateful for your support.”

McCree knew he didn't deserve this but he cherished the words all the same. “Don’t sweat it, Hanzo. I’ve got your back.” 

Hanzo’s smile was warm and special. 

McCree closed some of the distance, using the moment as a chance to plant his hand on Hanzo’s shoulder, a companionable gesture that left a lump in his throat. His thumb brushed at Hanzo’s neck, caressed the skin ever so slightly and he felt Hanzo shift, almost imperceptibly, into the touch. 

“Shall we have some tea and mochi?” Hanzo asked, eyes so very dark.

“I’d like that,” McCree replied, reluctantly drawing his hand away. 

Hanzo smiled again and for now, that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, i know how you feel  
> i was writing and i was fulling intending for them to get frisky  
> but it _just didn't happen_  
>  and now you all have to suffer with me


End file.
